


when evil blooms

by thedoomofvalyria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Books, Clever Draco, Draco and Luna are besties, Eventual Smut, Flowers, Frottage, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry loves pet names, Herbology, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts building magic, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mystery, Oblivious Harry, Pining, Potions, Research, Slow Burn, Supportive Ron and Hermione, UST, Wandless Magic, draco has a lot of feelings, residual dark magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 83,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedoomofvalyria/pseuds/thedoomofvalyria
Summary: Harry wanted a normal 8th year, but the mysterious and beautiful flowers growing around the castle have other ideas. They're up to something. And so is Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 317
Kudos: 1059
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. of whims and waistcoats

Draco Malfoy was sitting on a bench in the courtyard outside the Great Hall. The room had been magically expanded, the house tables stowed away, and the doors at the back were thrown open to a sight that would make an herbologist weep. Flowers of every kind spilled over decorative archways and trailed along the garden paths. Colors so lush in the moonlight that they felt specially created to celebrate this night. Surely those velvet blues and shimmering silvers were not natural wildlife? No, this was the castle itself blooming, expelling the last vestiges of Dark Magic by luxuriating in light.

And still, Draco Malfoy outshone it all.

Harry wasn’t sure what he had expected from the Hogwarts Reclamation Ball, but it certainly wasn’t his nemesis – _former nemesis?_ – dangled in front of his eyes like a suspiciously intoxicating fruit.

The Hall suddenly seemed very crowded, oppressive even, but the only way out was through. Harry squared his shoulders and set his path toward those open doors. Predictably, each body he passed reached out to him. Harry shook hands absently, nodding and smiling vaguely when a response seemed required, but did not linger. In that moment, he was immune to small talk.

Normally, he’d suffer through the awkward pleasantries, not wanting to be impolite, but every man has his limits, and apparently Draco Malfoy in a purple Muggle waistcoat ( _purple! Muggle! waistcoat!_ ) was Harry’s. Draco Malfoy was obviously up to something.

Harry noted that the few couples strolling the paths of the garden seemed to be giving Malfoy a wide berth, but the man did not seem troubled to be alone. His face was relaxed as he ran his fingers over the vines tangled through the ornate bench.

Harry stepped out into the courtyard, but paused in the shadow of the castle doors. Malfoy had not seen him yet, and probably would not be able to see him, even if he suddenly looked up. There was still time to abandon this whim and escape back inside.

But then Malfoy lowered his head, presumably for a closer look at the flower buds he was examining, and a few strands of that white gold hair fell into his eyes. The rest of it was pulled back in the most un-Malfoy-like hairstyle Harry could possibly imagine – a messy bun at the nape of his neck. His hair was slightly too short for it; errant locks fell around his ears and sharp jawline. Harry watched as Malfoy’s slender fingers impatiently brushed the hair away from his face – and Harry stopped thinking about it. It was as good as done already. He simply had to know.

Harry found himself standing beside Malfoy before he even realized he had moved away from the doors.

Malfoy squinted down at the flower buds for another moment, then slowly looked up. Something like wariness passed across his eyes before his expression cleared.

“Potter.” Malfoy nodded at him amicably.

“Hello, Malfoy.”

They stared at each other for two long heartbeats before Malfoy continued. “You’re blocking my light.”

Harry just managed to stop himself from reflexively spitting out an insult. Because Malfoy’s tone was almost as un-Malfoy-like as his hair. It wasn’t haughty or demanding or even very forceful. Malfoy was looking up at him now, one eyebrow raised, yes, but without the malicious sneer Harry was used to seeing from him. He seemed to simply be waiting for Harry to obligingly step aside.

Instead, Harry shuffled in place indecisively, unsure what to make of a Malfoy who turned statements into almost polite requests.

“Right. Er, sorry Malfoy. Could I sit down?” Harry felt the back of his neck growing hot, and reached his hand up to grip onto the hair there. He twisted the strands anxiously between his fingers.

Malfoy heaved out a world-weary sigh (dramatic git), then looked back down at his flowers. “I suppose, if that’s the only way to get you to move. But don’t talk to me just yet. I’m concentrating.”

Harry sat, feeling encouraged by the “just yet” part, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why. Did he want to talk to Malfoy? He shook his head, reminding himself that he wasn’t thinking about it.

Harry had expected the air of the garden to be heavy and perfumed, rather like Madam Puddifoot’s on Valentine’s Day – a place he did not want to think about, ever, but especially not while approaching Draco Malfoy – and so he had been inhaling shallowly through his mouth. But hyperventilating – or worse, passing out – in front of your childhood enemy was simply not on. So Harry finally allowed himself a full breath.

The twilight air was a pleasant surprise – sharp and crisp, almost tart. His nerves over returning to Hogwarts today had left him buzzing with tightly controlled adrenaline, which had only worsened with the weight of the Harry-Potter-boy-hero persona he was forced to adopt in public. But suddenly, with just a few breaths, all his tension had whisked away into the night. He felt calm and clean and, and focused, in a way he had not been since the end of the war.

Harry felt his hands start to clench at the thought of the war, but then let out a measured exhale and forcibly relaxed his fingers. He wiped his hands on his trousers and tilted his head back to look at the canopy of blooms above. The buds glimmered almost like fairy lights, and Harry found himself wondering if they had been enchanted. He looked at Malfoy then, meaning to ask if he knew anything about these strange flowers, but the words caught in his throat.

Malfoy had his wand out now, moving it in a complicated pattern while ever so gently stroking a petal with one elegant finger. A fine golden dust danced around his wand tip, and Harry realized that Malfoy was drawing something out of the flower. Harry hardly dared to move as he watched, waiting for something miraculous to happen. But eventually the dust just settled back onto the flower and slowly disappeared.

Harry looked up at Malfoy, expecting to see bitterness or disdain, some dark reflection of failure. He was entirely unprepared for what the other man’s face held instead. Malfoy was gazing at the flower with an expression of rapt wonder. His jaw was slack, lips slightly parted, and a soft blush of genuine pleasure colored his pale cheeks. His eyes though, those were fierce, gleaming with a thousand unanswered questions. Harry watched as theory after theory chased across Malfoy’s mind, and could not bring himself to interrupt. Draco Malfoy had never looked so unguarded.

Harry felt as though he were seeing him clearly for the first time. He knew this look, had witnessed it often enough around Hermione, though on her it had been less… fiery, somehow. Malfoy looked almost fevered as his eyes danced over the flower. But even still, Harry recognized someone in the throes of complete intellectual absorption. This flower was an academic problem, an anomaly of some kind (probably the whole bloody garden was), and Malfoy intended to solve it.

Harry looked away, overwhelmed for a moment by a pang of sadness. He found himself wondering if this was who Malfoy was supposed to be, who he could have been, were it not for Voldemort. And then Harry remembered sixth year, when Malfoy had devoted his mind to darkness instead of flowers. He remembered the vanishing cabinet, and Death Eaters in the castle, and… and then he stopped. They had all made choices, both good and bad. Malfoy was no exception.

Harry swallowed hard and scuffed one of his new dress shoes against the ground. When Malfoy didn’t so much as glance at him, Harry finally broke the silence. “What spell was that?”

Malfoy startled, almost crushing the flower between his fingers. “What?”

“What spell was that?” Harry repeated. “What were you doing to the flower?”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s voice sounded strained. His fingers twitched as he gazed almost longingly at the buds above their heads. He cleared his throat and answered. “An advanced Potions spell. It draws the essence out of a plant.”

“What do you do with the plant’s essence?”

Malfoy’s smile immediately dropped away and he met Harry’s eyes with a glare. “Is this an interrogation, Potter?”

“What? No!” Harry sputtered, genuinely taken aback. He noticed that Malfoy now _was_ crushing the flower in his fist, but somehow it didn’t look like anger. No, Malfoy was clutching the bloom against his chest almost protectively, like he was afraid someone might try to take it away from him.

Malfoy thundered on, and though he was hitting all the right notes for outrage, all Harry could see was fear.

“ – because you know perfectly well that I am on probation. A single Dark spell, Merlin, even a slightly murky one, would be enough to land me in Azkaban!”

“Malfoy –”

“If you think for a single moment that you’re going to be following me around all year, sniffing after some Dark plot, then you are going to be sorely disappointed. You best find some other way to get your second Order of Merlin because it will not be for turning in me. Find someone else to abuse with your Gryffindor do-gooder stalkerness.”

Malfoy had risen during his tirade and was now looking around himself almost self-consciously. He huffed out a breath upon seeing they were still alone, and then began storming away toward the castle.

Without thinking about it, Harry leapt up from the bench and caught Malfoy by the wrist.

“Malfoy, no!” Harry shouted, before seeing the look of barely concealed panic in Malfoy’s eyes. Harry immediately let go of him and stepped back. Hands raised slightly, he made an effort to speak calmly. “I didn’t think you were doing anything Dark with that plant.”

Malfoy blinked once, looking almost dazed, then frowned at Harry. For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy was going to walk away, but instead Malfoy spoke. “Why did you ask me about it then?”

The question shocked Harry into silence. Is that really what Malfoy thought? That Harry would only talk to him because he suspected something evil? The idea made him feel surprisingly sad.

Malfoy looked at him a moment longer, then nodded once, as if Harry had confirmed his suspicions, before shoving his hands in his pockets and starting again for the castle.

Seeing Malfoy leave finally unstuck Harry’s tongue and he blurted out in a rush, “Because that dust was really pretty.”

“What?” Malfoy had turned back to face him.

Harry took a breath and tried again, more slowly this time. “Because that dust was really pretty, and I was, er, curious, I guess.”

“You were curious?” Malfoy repeated, both eyebrows raised this time.

“Yeah,” Harry said sheepishly.

Malfoy frowned at him again, but Harry noticed a faint blush was heating his cheeks. Malfoy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he took one last look at the plants and glanced at Harry before simply walking away. Again.

“I like your waistcoat!” Harry yelled after him, then collapsed on the bench, immediately horrified with himself.

Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened, but he did not stop, and he did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> illustration by @gildedshivers


	2. a chase through the corridors

The problem with not thinking about things, Harry thought glumly to himself the next morning, is that you find yourself doing things that are unthinkable. 

Like telling your boyhood rival that you _like his waistcoat_.

He groaned softly and kicked his trainers against the overly shiny floor beneath his chair. Hermione shot him a pointed look – it was two minutes past the time this eighth year meeting was due to start and she was sitting straight and professional, quill poised over parchment and gazing expectantly at the lectern where McGonagall should be – but Harry ignored her. He’d be spending the next hour (or day… or year, more likely) continuing to berate himself, whether or not McGonagall ever showed up.

Yes, not thinking meant doing unthinkable things… and shouldn’t he have figured that out by now? 

Not thinking about it was how he ended up kissing Cho when he was really more attracted to her dead boyfriend; and dating someone who might as well have been his sister; and, come to think of it, almost killing Draco Malfoy in a bathroom. 

And well… walking into a forest to willingly die.

Harry felt his nails bite into his palms. He gave into the panic for one, two, three seconds, then forced himself to unclench his hands. 

When his breathing slowed, he darted a glance at Hermione, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. Ron was slumped in the chair on Harry’s other side, still half asleep, so no trouble there. Harry rubbed a hand across his face self-consciously, and then… his thoughts inevitably strayed back to Malfoy. Malfoy, who was now over five minutes late for their first day.

When Malfoy hadn’t shown his face at breakfast, Harry had been immensely finding it easier to choke down his porridge without the threat of looking up and accidentally meeting his eyes. But now, Harry was starting to worry. 

Malfoy really must be up to something. The posh git had always been irritatingly punctual. In six years, Harry had never once seen him walk in late to a class, like it was beneath him to take a wrong turn in the corridor or misplace his parchment. If he was this late, and on the first day, there must be a reason.

Harry was in the middle of cursing himself for not wandering over to the courtyard during breakfast – _because if the flowers were still there, maybe that’s where Malfoy was!_ – when McGonagall finally bustled into the room. She looked down at all of them with an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face. Smiling warmly, she began to speak.

“Good morning, eighth year students. I apologize for my lateness. There were a few complications with your class schedules. Nothing to worry about, Ms. Granger,” McGonagall added with a chuckle. Hermione, who had immediately gone rigid, flushed slightly before relaxing back into her seat. “The Ministry had a few objections to our proposed curriculum, but it has been handled.” An almost wicked gleam flashed in her eyes at that, and Harry found himself unexpectedly grinning. He’d had quite enough of the Ministry interfering at Hogwarts, and it seemed McGonagall agreed. He leaned forward slightly as McGonagall continued.

“Before we begin, I want to thank you all, sincerely, for returning for this, your final year at Hogwarts. Hogwarts is more than a school, and far too much of your time here was taken away from you. You know better than anyone how much we have lost –” 

McGonagall’s voice caught, and she paused to collect herself. And that’s precisely when Draco Malfoy slipped in through the side door. 

McGonagall turned toward him, but Harry was on his feet before she could speak.

“Malfoy!” he practically shouted across the room.

Malfoy looked rather alarmed, but his expression quickly smoothed over. Without sparing Harry a second glance, he politely apologized to McGonagall and took a seat next to Luna at the back of the room.

Ron grabbed Harry’s wrist and yanked him down into his seat. Harry felt his face heat as his classmates began muttering. 

“Mate. What was that?” Ron hissed in his ear. Harry gave him a sheepish look, but didn’t answer.

McGonagall cleared her throat pointedly, then continued speaking as if there had been no interruption. “But for everything we have lost, there are also things we have gained. Hogwarts is the finest institution of magical learning in the world, but there are ways in which it has failed you. All of you. And we will not repeat those failures. Every single person in this room has made mistakes.” 

McGonagall’s gaze rested on Harry when she said that last bit, and maybe he should have felt slighted or singled out, but all he felt was _seen_. Because he _had_ made mistakes, ones he was drowning under the weight of, and those mistakes were impossible to face and move on from when nobody in his life would acknowledge their existence. Somehow, McGonagall had known exactly what Harry needed to hear.

McGonagall looked directly at the few returning Slytherins as she continued. “And every single person in this room has done something good for our community.” McGonagall nodded once, formally acknowledging Malfoy, Parkinson, and Zabini, then swept her eyes across the rest of the room. “If I did not believe you deserved a place here, if I did not respect the decisions you have made in these past few months, then you would not be here. And so, this year, you will put aside your differences and work together. You will take care of each other. You will learn from each other. And you will set an example for the younger students of this school. You are the generation that will re-build the British wizarding world. I intend to make very certain that you are all up to the challenge. Am I understood?”

McGonagall stared down at them from the lectern, as stern and imposing as she had ever been, but as he and his classmates murmured their assents, Harry knew that he wasn’t the only one who felt bolstered by her belief in them; they all knew that the speech came from a place of sorrow and love. 

The rest of the meeting passed slowly, and Harry couldn’t help fidgeting in his chair. Malfoy’s presence was like a phantom itch, and not being able to scratch at it was driving Harry mad. The answers to all his questions were right there, just three rows behind him, tangled up in Malfoy’s head. Harry had half a mind to get up and drag Malfoy forcibly from the room.

But doing things like that was how you wound up with a false reputation for being “deranged” or “obsessed,” and Harry was trying to keep a low profile this year. So he tried to listen to the Headmistress as she told them all about the new curriculum she had devised for their eighth year.

Ron grumbled a bit when McGonagall mentioned an eighth year table in the Great Hall and an eighth year dormitory out on the grounds. Hermione impatiently shushed him, mumbling something about inter-house unity, and Harry didn’t exactly _disagree_ with that idea, but he still felt a pang go through him when he realized he wouldn’t be returning to Gryffindor tower. 

The Reclamation Ball had replaced the Welcoming Feast and the Sorting Ceremony last night, so all students below fourth year had not arrived until this morning. Harry and the others had bunked in their old dorms after the Ball, and he had felt safe in a way he hadn’t in a long time. It had never occurred to him that McGonagall might move them once term officially started, but he supposed the school needed the space. The incoming first years were all grouped together this morning for an orientation, but they would be sorted that evening and would then join their new Houses.

As McGonagall moved on to speak about academics, Harry found himself absorbing less and less of the information. There was something about rotating workshops with different professors, and the option of sitting in on seventh year classes of their choosing. Harry tried to focus when McGonagall mentioned interdisciplinary projects, but his mind had caught on the idea of sharing a dorm with Malfoy. In a way, it was an extraordinary piece of luck – it’d be a lot easier to find out what Malfoy was up to if he had an excuse to be around him all the time. But on the other hand, wouldn’t it be miserable being around Malfoy all the time? Even if Malfoy hadn’t been overly antagonistic yet, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t soon start. And what if the wanker wore another waistcoat? Or something else Muggle and unfairly attractive?

No, Harry couldn’t trust himself. He’d have to stay away from Draco Malfoy.

When McGonagall dismissed the group an excruciating forty-five minutes later, Malfoy was the first person out of the room. Harry managed a full fifteen seconds of listening to Ron’s plans for the morning, before he forced out a quick “sorry mate, see you at lunch” and hurtled out the door after Malfoy.

Harry skidded to a halt when he reached Malfoy, who had only made it a few paces down the corridor. Harry awkwardly cleared his throat, not quite sure how to start the conversation. Malfoy saved him the trouble, greeting Harry without even looking at him.

“Oh, hello Potter. Nice trousers, or whatever.”

“Er… what?” Harry finally managed, after a few stunned seconds of just staring at the side of Malfoy’s head.

“Isn’t that what we do now? Give each other compliments we don’t mean? No? Apologies, my mistake.”

“Speak for yourself,” Harry muttered under his breath, because he _had_ liked Malfoy’s waistcoat, not that he should have _told_ the git, if he was going to act like this. 

“Hmm?” Malfoy asked, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was walking intently down the corridor, eyes roving over every inch of the wall.

Harry huffed out an exasperated breath, which finally seemed to capture Malfoy’s full attention. He turned to face Harry with a sigh.

“Potter, when you assured me last night that your interest in my activities was not due to your overly suspicious nature, I very graciously decided to believe you. However –”

Harry flushed, with irritation rather than embarrassment for once. “Believe me? Malfoy, you ran away!”

“ _However_ –” Malfoy continued icily, accenting the word with a glare - “if you have chased me down this corridor to ask me why I was late this morning, I will certainly lose my temper.”

“I did not _chase_ you anywhere,” Harry began to argue.

“And hex you,” Malfoy added, almost like an afterthought, but still effectively cutting Harry off. He blinked at Malfoy, unsure of what to say. Because he _had_ been planning to ask why he was late. 

“Right,” Harry finally offered. “I won’t ask.”

Malfoy seemed taken aback by this. He quirked an eyebrow suspiciously, but when Harry said nothing, Malfoy continued on his way, eyes fixed once more on the wall. He was moving quickly now, and Harry scrambled to follow. He pushed his way past a few students straggling to their next class, trying to ignore their stares.

“What are you looking for?” Harry asked when he caught up, only just stopping himself from reaching out to nudge Malfoy’s shoulder.

“Potter, are you blind? Are those glasses you wear just an ill-advised fashion statement?” Malfoy drawled without looking away from the wall. Harry scowled, but he couldn’t help noticing that the insult lacked the bite of their youth. There was no anger or harshness in it. 

“I’m not looking; I’m _following_ ,” Malfoy continued. “These should not be here.” With that, Malfoy trailed his graceful fingers along the stones beside him, and Harry finally saw it.

Tiny, intricate flower designs traced an erratic, spiraling pattern all along the wall they were following. Hardly noticeable, the flowers were somehow still as vibrant as the ones that had been in the courtyard last night. Harry drew closer and tentatively stroked a fingertip across a dazzlingly bright orange bud. For a moment, he could swear he felt the petals beneath his fingers, shockingly smooth and warm, and very much alive. But then the sensation faded, and Harry could feel nothing beneath his hand save the cool stone.

Malfoy had stopped to watch him. When Harry met his eyes, Malfoy gave him an appraising look and nodded. “Coming?” he asked, then strode off without waiting for an answer.

Harry followed, his own eyes now glued to the wall as well.

“Were these always here?” Harry wondered aloud.

Malfoy snorted.

“What?” Harry demanded. “They’re really hard to see! It’s not like we all walk around banging our noses against the wall.”

“Really, Potter? You’ve never been shoved up against the hard stone in a dark and deserted corridor?” There was something in Malfoy’s voice that Harry had never heard there before. It was rough, and somehow also warm. _Dangerous_ , Harry thought, and suppressed a shiver.

“No, actually,” Harry answered, in a carefully neutral tone. “You should know. You’re the only one I fight with here.”

“I wasn’t talking about fighting, Potter.” Malfoy shook his head and huffed out a small laugh.

Still smirking at Harry’s confusion, Malfoy studied a corner carefully, then turned right and continued up the stairs.

The flowers seemed to be leading them somewhere. The delicate blooms stretched across the walls in trailing vines, slowly, ever so slowly, growing thicker and more obvious. The more flowers there were to follow, the more quickly Harry and Malfoy moved, until they were practically sprinting down the (blessedly empty) halls. Harry took a moment to silently praise McGonagall for creating such flexible eighth year schedules. When you have an enemy – _ex-enemy?_ – who is very clearly up to something, it’s important to be able to trail him while everyone else is in class and can’t get in the way.

Harry was just starting to worry about what he’d tell Ron and Hermione, who weren’t conveniently tucked away in class right now and who would almost certainly object to him racing through the castle with Draco Malfoy, when he suddenly crashed into Malfoy’s back. 

Malfoy stumbled, but immediately straightened. He scrabbled backward and reached out a hand, almost like he wanted to grab onto Harry’s arm.

“Merlin, Malfoy! Are you –” Harry trailed off, finally taking in their surroundings.

It seemed the flowers had not been guiding them at all. No, Harry and Malfoy had traced them to their source.

In front of Malfoy stood a plain wooden door, unremarkable in every way, except for the riot of color exploding through its frame. Dozens of wild, gorgeous flowers were forcing their way through every gap of the closed door, growing through the hinges and lock, spilling over the threshold. Harry could only stare as he breathed in the same crisp, sobering scent from last night.

The flowers covered only the door; surrounding it, the vines and petals were swallowed by the wall. It was as if the stones of Hogwarts had absorbed the flowers, transforming them effortlessly into the subtle design he and Malfoy had followed.

It was a display of raw, unfettered Hogwarts magic the likes of which they had never seen. It should have been beautiful, wondrous even. But it wasn’t.

Because that door should not be there.

Because he and Malfoy were on the seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. 

Harry and Malfoy were standing in front of the Room of Requirement.

And neither of them had _required_ anything.

Harry swallowed hard, suddenly feeling a chill race through his veins. He glanced at Malfoy, who wasn’t faring much better. Naturally pale, he was now almost white, and his eyes were darting anxiously back and forth. His breath was coming out in panicky bursts.

Harry looked away, afraid to catch Malfoy’s eye. The past was shivering all around them and Harry did not want to watch the memories chase across Malfoy’s mind. If Harry couldn’t see Malfoy, maybe he wouldn’t remember the heat, the terrifying lack of control, the raging plumes of fire. Maybe he wouldn’t feel the echo of Malfoy’s fingers gripping his hips, the broom shaking beneath them, Malfoy’s tears soaking his neck.

But then Malfoy squared his shoulders and turned to face Harry.

“Scared, Potter?” he breathed out, barely audible. He had never sounded less like the cocksure boy who used to spit those words at Harry at the slightest provocation. But Harry was absurdly grateful for the familiar taunt.

“You wish, Malfoy,” Harry whispered, and it felt like a ritual, like something he could rely on, the easy rhythms of their old rivalry offering both comfort and strength. Inexplicably, the past relaxed its grip and suddenly Harry could breathe again.

Malfoy’s face was still tight and anxious, but Harry could swear the git almost grinned at him – if those aristocratic cheekbones were even capable of grinning, that is.

Harry held Malfoy’s gaze for another moment, then nodded at him. Malfoy blanched, but quickly recovered himself. He stepped forward and opened the door.

Smoke poured out, immediately obliterating the clean aroma of the flowers. Harry and Malfoy both choked, but as the smoke began to thin, they moved resolutely through the door. Inside, the room screamed devastation. Every last inch was black with soot, scorched and bruised and crumbling.

And in the center of the room, in a pile of ash, there grew one single flower.

Its petals were tightly closed, but it shone with an iridescent gleam, as sharp and clear as if it were carved from glass.

Malfoy rushed forward and dropped to his knees, reaching out to cup the bud in one gentle palm. The petals shivered, and all at once, the flower bloomed.

He looked up at Harry then, and Harry had the fleeting thought that he had never seen Malfoy so disheveled. His hair was escaping his bun and strands of it clung to the sweat at his temples. There was already a smudge of ash above his brow, and his undoubtedly expensive trousers were probably being ruined by the soot he had thrown himself into.

Malfoy held the flower out to Harry in careful, trembling hands. He was still clearly terrified, the hollows of his face catching the shadows and giving him a grim, haunted look. But even still, Malfoy’s entire body was alive with curiosity and wonder.

And Harry just _knew_.

There might be a part of him that would always hate Draco Malfoy, but Harry would never tire of seeing those grey eyes light up with unanswerable questions.


	3. confessions by moonlight

Harry sat in the eighth year common room and listlessly flicked through his battered copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , not even glancing down at the words. He would never admit it, but the book was nothing more than a convenient prop. What Harry was actually doing was staring across the room at Draco Malfoy, and he didn’t want his friends to notice.

There had been surprisingly little trouble after the incident three days ago, when he had chased after Malfoy and they had stumbled upon the Room of Requirement. Ron had been slightly gruff at lunch, but accepted Harry’s “ _sorry about earlier, mate, needed some air_ ” and seemed to have forgotten about it by dinner. Hermione had given him a sad look, but Harry couldn’t decipher if she knew what he had been up to, or if she was just worried that he might be anxious or depressed. 

Hermione didn’t ask, so Harry didn’t try to explain. _He_ didn’t even understand what kept pulling his attention back to Malfoy, so he definitely couldn’t justify it to others.

And Harry wasn’t ready to share anything about the flowers yet. For some reason, it felt like a secret, and if it was a secret, then it wasn’t his to tell. It was Malfoy’s. In a strange way, the flowers seemed to belong to him. After all, no one else was paying them any attention.

Harry, however, found it hard to pay attention to anything else. His mind kept wandering down garden paths, stray thoughts snagging on lustrous petals and trailing in the wind.

And if mulling over the mystery of the flowers sometimes led to mulling over the mystery of a certain blond with clever fingers… well, Harry certainly couldn’t be blamed for that.

After all, Harry never would have taken such an interest in the flowers if he hadn’t seen Malfoy summon the golden dust. And then they had gone and discovered the glass-like flower together. And so, against Harry’s will, Harry and Malfoy – and the flowers, of course – had become inextricably entwined.

Except – they hadn’t spoken about the flowers since leaving the Room of Requirement. They hadn’t spoken much at all really.

Harry didn’t know how to talk to Malfoy if they weren’t enemies anymore. And they _weren’t_ , Harry was sure of that. There are some things you can’t share without ending up in an unspoken cease fire, and discovering a mysterious magical phenomenon in a place where you both almost died is one of them.

Harry flipped another page in his book and noted that Malfoy was chewing on his thumbnail as he read. His feet were up on the chair, knees pulled into his chest, and he was wearing an oversized green jumper that looked sinfully soft. Harry’s fingers twitched, wrinkling the page. Ron glanced up at him from the floor, where he was trouncing Seamus at chess, and gave Harry a questioning look. Harry just grinned at him, then forced himself to relax and look back at the book. Ron shrugged and went back to his game.

Hermione was ensconced in an armchair above Ron, and every so often, she would run her fingers absently through his hair. While the rest of the former Gryffindors were relaxing after their first week back, Hermione was merrily speeding through the advance reading for their first seminar course. 

First term for the eighth years would consist of eight week-long workshops, designed to introduce them to cross-curricular and real-world applications of the spell-work they had (presumably) mastered over the last seven years.

McGonagall seemed confident that by November, they would all discover a promising path forward and be able to narrow the focus of their studies. Harry wasn’t so sure; it seemed more likely that the coursework would highlight all the gaps in his magical knowledge, rather than reveal a previously undiscovered passion or talent, but you never know. Besides, if all else failed, he supposed he could always become an auror.

Harry shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling anxious and jittery. He tipped his head back and stared up at the stars and branches over his head.

Their new common room was an enchanted wonderland, hidden inside one massive pine tree at the edge of the lake. The bark recognized their magical signatures; simply resting a hand against the tree’s trunk whisked them into a charming grotto.

Trees stretched into an endless sky. No matter the time of day, they could look up into the deep, inky blues of midnight and see the comforting radiance of hundreds of stars.

In the center of their little woodland was a roaring bonfire (complete with a permanent shield charm, to avoid any drunken mishaps). Chairs and sofas made of woven branches were scattered throughout the room, somehow as plush and comfortable as anything Gryffindor tower had to offer. Overhead, the tree branches were strung with tiny lanterns that seemed to always provide the perfect amount of light. Indeed, as Harry closed his eyes, the lantern above him dimmed slightly, and he almost smiled.

Harry must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Ron was kicking at his ankle and asking him for a game of chess.

The common room had emptied out some, but when Harry’s eyes darted to the corner, he saw that Draco Malfoy still occupied the same chair.

Harry was spared answering when Hermione yawned and announced that she was heading to bed. As she walked toward the dormitories, Ron gave Harry a sheepish look, his eyes trailing after his girlfriend.

Harry raised his eyebrows, but quickly relented. “Goodnight, Ron,” he said teasingly.

“Thanks, mate,” Ron replied, before darting after Hermione. “Night!” he called over his shoulder.

Harry chuckled. The Hogwarts staff had apparently decided to be quite accommodating about eighth year bedrooms. The dormitory was large enough for them each to have their own small room, but it easily adapted to the preferences of its residents. The rooms responded to any polite (and reasonable) request. Ron and Hemione had created a lovely shared bedroom for themselves, complete with an entire wall of bookshelves and a small corner dedicated to the bright orange of the Chudley Cannons. 

So Harry was sleeping on his own.

He had to admit that there were some advantages to the privacy – it was certainly easier to have a leisurely wank in the morning (while carefully not thinking about messy blond buns or intelligent grey eyes) – but Harry missed the comforting presence of other people.

He had gotten used to falling asleep surrounded by Hermione’s quiet breathing and Ron’s sporadic snores. Feeling them nearby was the easiest way to calm himself after a nightmare, and while Harry did not have nightmares every night, he still had them often enough that his bedroom felt more like enemy territory than a refuge.

Harry sighed; he definitely was not ready for bed yet.

It was past two in the morning now, and the only other person still in the common room was Malfoy, who had not once looked up from his book in all the time Harry had been watching him. Harry hesitated, but then he stood up and walked across the room. He wanted to talk about the flowers, and he was tired of waiting.

“Alright Malfoy?” Harry greeted him softly.

Malfoy jumped so dramatically that he dropped his book. Harry stooped down to retrieve it and held it out to him. Malfoy just stared at Harry for a second, but then he adjusted the collar of his jumper and carefully accepted the book.

“Good book?” Harry asked with a teasing smile.

Malfoy went red, but when he answered his voice was steady. “Potions research.”

“Fancy a break?” Harry attempted. Malfoy shifted in his chair and scowled at him, but Harry soldiered ahead anyway. Fighting against blushing, Harry looked away from Malfoy and addressed his question to the floor. “Thought I’d take a walk, if you – er, maybe wanted to come?”

After several seconds of silence, Harry darted a hopeful glance up at Malfoy. The other man was still frowning, but Harry thought it might be a confused frown rather than an angry one. His heart leapt, quite without his permission. Harry frowned then, annoyed with himself. He was _investigating a mystery_ , not trying to – to _woo_ anyone. Harry’s heart had no business getting excited about Draco Malfoy. _You are indifferent to Draco Malfoy_ , he told it sternly.

“No, I’d better finish this chapter,” Malfoy finally answered. He tugged a bit on the sleeves of his jumper before re-opening his book and staring determinedly down at it.

Harry’s heart lurched pathetically, then sank, completely ignoring what he had just told it. Harry sighed and headed to the door.

He thought he heard a quiet “goodnight, Potter” as he passed through the pine’s trunk, but he could not be sure.

***

Later, though not much later, Harry was sitting by the edge of the lake, listening to the moon and thinking of Remus, when Draco Malfoy made his way across the grass and knelt down beside him. He looked regal in this light, pale hair shimmering in silver slashes across his cheekbones.

Harry’s traitorous heart gave one desperate throb that seemed to flash through his whole body. As Malfoy settled more comfortably beside him, Harry’s palms began to ache. He shoved them into his pockets and nodded roughly at Malfoy.

Neither of them spoke at first, but then Malfoy turned his head to Harry with a smirk. “Is this your definition of a ‘walk,’ Potter? Lazy arse,” he added, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

Harry huffed out a dry laugh. “Yeah well, I’m in training for the very important position of ‘Quidditch spectator.’”

Malfoy’s smile cracked and fell away. “I can’t believe we’re not allowed on the House teams. I was really looking forward to flying again.”

Harry was surprised by the simple honesty of the remark. A younger Malfoy would have been petulant and resentful, but the man in front of him sounded so genuine and so wistful, that Harry spoke before he could think better of it. “We can still fly. We should have a seeker game sometime, you and me.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion, as if there were some trick hidden behind Harry’s offer. Harry just gazed earnestly back at him. Eventually, Malfoy’s posture relaxed, if only slightly. “Alright,” he said carefully.

“Alright,” Harry echoed, and smiled.

Malfoy drew in a sharp breath and looked out over the lake. They were silent for a time, and Harry began to trail his fingers through the water.

Harry felt like they were back in the courtyard, surrounded by flowers, when he had met this version of Malfoy for the first time. _Is this who you were supposed to be?_ Harry thought again. _Is this who you could have been, if not for your father?_

“What are you thinking about?” Malfoy asked softly. 

It was an odd question, so unlike their usual interactions, even their borderline friendly ones, that Harry felt momentarily panicked.

He leaned back on his hands, stalling. _You, Malfoy, I’m thinking about you_ , was far too honest an answer. So he settled on the moon. (That’s what he had been thinking about, after all, before Malfoy had appeared and invaded every last inch of Harry’s mind and body, turning all else to dust.)

“Professor Lupin, actually. Remus.”

Malfoy’s reply was strained. “Oh,” he breathed out, glancing at the moon and quickly looking away again. He tugged at his cuffs, then folded his hands awkwardly into his lap.

“He was a good teacher,” Malfoy offered quietly. “And he seemed like a good man. I… I wish he had lived.”

Malfoy gripped his hands more tightly together, tension obvious all through his arms and shoulders. Harry could sense that Malfoy was waiting for him to lash out, waiting for Harry to leap up and yell and berate him for his actions during the war. And Harry could see just as clearly that Malfoy would not defend himself. He would accept the blame. He would take whatever Harry threw at him and suffer it in silence.

And part of Harry _did_ want that. So many dead, so many sacrificed at an altar where Malfoy had served. Giving in to rage, blaming someone, blaming _Malfoy_ , would feel good, would lift some of the weight, if only for a moment.

But Malfoy looked so small sitting there, so bowed under the weight of his past, that Harry couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

Besides, it wouldn’t be honest. Malfoy wasn’t responsible for any of those deaths. No, all the dead, on both sides, traced back to Voldemort.

And it meant something, Harry thought, that Malfoy was willing to accept blame. Malfoy hadn’t apologized for his actions, but Harry could see the remorse just the same.

Harry flopped down onto the grass with a sigh, letting the anger whisk away like smoke. “Yeah, me too. Remus’ son, my godson, he’s only a baby, and he’ll never know his father. I was thinking about all the stories I want to tell him someday, and I was thinking about how much it would have meant to me, if someone had told me stories like that. It made me wonder if things would have been different, if I had grown up feeling loved.” Harry cringed then, wondering what had possessed him to admit that to Draco Malfoy, of all people. Harry felt raw, sure that whatever Malfoy said, it wouldn’t be enough to quell Harry’s shame.

Malfoy didn’t respond, but after what felt like a very long time, he laid down beside Harry. Harry thought about how guarded Malfoy had been this first week back at Hogwarts, hardly interacting with anyone, keeping a careful distance between himself and the rest of the world. He hadn’t laughed, or relaxed, or done anything other than keep his head down and study. 

And Harry realized that maybe it was ok to be vulnerable in this moment, with this version of Malfoy. Maybe he didn’t need Malfoy to say anything; maybe having him there next to him, close enough to touch, was reassurance enough.

Harry closed his eyes and was just beginning to think vague thoughts about bed, when Malfoy finally did speak.

“The flower from the Room of Requirement hasn’t responded to any of my spells.”

That sentence was better than a jolt of caffeine. That’s why Harry had asked Malfoy to take a walk in the first place! But he had gotten lost in their strange conversation and forgotten. 

Harry rolled onto his side to face Malfoy, giving him his full attention, and waited for him to continue. 

Malfoy stayed on his back, eyes fixed on the night sky. “The spell you asked me about, that draws out the plant’s essence? It’s for inventing potions. It allows you to determine how best to brew the flower for your desired results. The colors, the texture, all the small details, they give you concrete data about the properties of the plant. The golden dust you saw in the courtyard was… unusual. It’s not recorded in any of the books.”

“So you tried the spell on the glass flower, but it didn’t have any essence in it at all?” Harry asked.

“Nothing that I could find.”

“And it’s definitely a real flower, not just glass?” 

“Yes, definitely.”

“And you’re sure you did the spell right?” Harry prodded. Maybe the implied insult would get Malfoy to at least look at him.

The other man bristled slightly, but didn’t rise to the bait. “Yes, Potter,” he drawled out. “I have literally performed that spell in my sleep. I am quite certain.”

Harry’s brow wrinkled, but he decided not to ask, hoping the silence would encourage Malfoy to continue. He was not disappointed.

“It made me wonder about the other flowers. I think Hogwarts might be trying to tell us something. Something feels… wrong.” Malfoy trailed off, biting his lip.

Harry considered that. In some ways, things _had_ been rather grim this week. Hushed conversations, tears suppressed or quickly concealed, people gazing listlessly out windows. And they all seemed so _exhausted_ – as evidenced by the lack of a party on their first Friday night in an unsupervised dorm. That was rather odd, now that Harry thought about it.

But then again, it all made sense, didn’t it? They were back in a place where terrible, violent things had happened. They were all shadowed by trauma. They were all working through their grief.

“It’s only the first week,” Harry replied. “You don’t think we might just be… re-adjusting?”

“No,” Malfoy said vehemently, sitting up and finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “It’s more than that. It’s – I don’t know, never mind.”

Harry scrambled upright and grabbed Malfoy’s hand. “No, it’s ok. What is it, Malfoy?”

Malfoy shrank back and quickly pulled his hand away from Harry’s. He hesitated, but then he spoke. “When the Dark – when _Voldemort_ -" Malfoy made an odd, aborted gesture with his hand, like he wanted to grasp onto something, but was forcing himself not to – “was living at the Manor, I spent as much time outside as possible.”

Harry wasn’t sure where Malfoy was going with this, but he listened patiently. Because it felt like Malfoy was offering him something. 

Malfoy had listened to Harry speak of Remus, and he had not replied. But he had let Harry be vulnerable. He had accepted Harry’s pain, and shared it, and now he was choosing to trust Harry with something of his own. 

“We have – had – a lot of land there, and the far edges are overgrown and wild. While – Voldemort was skulking about the Manor, holding his war councils, I’d run off and go exploring. Well, I told myself I was exploring, but really I was hiding.” Malfoy’s words were coming faster now, pouring from him, as if he was desperate to let them out before his brain caught up and forced him to stop. “The flowers from the courtyard, I found the same ones on the grounds of the Manor, deep in the woods. They weren’t always there. They only bloomed after I –” Malfoy cut himself off.

He suddenly gripped his left forearm, and started to run his thumb up and down over the spot where Harry knew his Mark would be. When Malfoy caught Harry staring, he stopped immediately and crossed his arms over his chest.

Harry quickly looked away, somewhat abashed. He steadied himself by digging his fingers into the dirt beneath him and carefully asked, “they bloomed?”

“Yes. After I –” Malfoy swallowed hard - “after I spent a lot of time in that part of the woods. Potter, those flowers all produced that same golden dust. That’s the only other time I’ve seen it.”

Harry absorbed that. “So you think it’s connected? Wait, is that why you think Hogwarts is trying to tell us something? Was the Manor trying to tell you something, with the flowers?”

Malfoy hugged his arms more tightly to his chest. When he answered, his voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

Harry knew he was pushing his luck, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking the obvious question. “What was it trying to tell you?”

Malfoy shook his head. 

Harry leaned forward, meaning to demand an answer. But then he stopped. 

Because Malfoy had shattered. His entire posture spoke of defeat, every inch of him dull and tired and beaten. But there was a wild look in his eyes of barely controlled panic.

Not tonight, Harry realized. Not tonight, not tonight, not tonight. It was too much, and Harry suddenly wanted to be anywhere else.

Because Harry had seen that look on Malfoy before. And just like that, Harry was snatched up by the past, held captive once again in the halls of Malfoy Manor. Broken and bloody, Harry had known he was minutes away from being handed to Voldemort. 

Malfoy had been all that stood between Harry and certain death. But then their eyes had met and everything else had faded away. Harry couldn’t breathe. Because Malfoy had looked just as broken as Harry felt, and the desperate fear in his eyes had matched Harry’s own. 

That night, Malfoy had looked away first, snapping the tether between them. But he had not betrayed Harry. He had lied, and saved him.

Harry felt the grass beneath his fingers and slowly came back to the present. His breathing slowed as he remembered what it had felt like that night at the Manor – staring into Malfoy’s eyes and seeing not an enemy, but another victim of the war. That night had been the first time Harry understood that the children of the enemy were suffering too.

Harry shifted toward Malfoy and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Malfoy, speaking of the Manor –” Malfoy’s entire body tensed. Harry could practically see the walls going up, but he stubbornly continued. “I never thanked –”

“Save it, Potter,” Malfoy interrupted harshly. He pulled his knees to his chest. But his voice softened slightly as he added, “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I think maybe I do,” Harry blurted out. 

Harry didn’t know why he had said it or what he had meant exactly, but he didn’t regret his words. Even if he didn’t understand why, it still felt true.

Malfoy gave him an incredulous look, but there was no anger in it.

Harry smiled sadly at Malfoy, murmured a goodnight, and made his way back inside.


	4. the value of nonsense

The downside to the week-long eighth year workshops was that they were taught by visiting professors. Which was great – in theory.

Hermione was beside herself over the chance to learn from _experts in their fields, Harry! Can you imagine how useful all this would have been when we were on the run last year?_

Harry had flinched at the reminder, but he had to admit that Hermione had a point.

While he could have done without the week they spent on magical politics and international relations (the curriculum had felt irritatingly pure-blood, what with all the foreign etiquette they had to learn), last week’s unit on healing and basic magical remedies would certainly have eased some of the strain back when they were struggling through the woods. 

Harry had thought that the diagnostic spells would be beyond him, but they were easy enough to perform. The real trick was learning how to read them, though he was sure Hermione could have fit one more book into her magically expanded purse to give them a quick reference guide. He chuckled lightly to himself, then sighed.

Some days, he thought back on how unprepared they had been and marveled that they had survived at all.

So alright, Hermione wasn’t _wrong_. 

But the fact remained that the visiting professors hadn’t had the chance to… get used to Harry in the same way the Hogwarts professors had. After all, it was hard to hero worship someone after you had given them detention.

Harry had come back to school this year thinking Hogwarts would be a refuge, a place where – for the most part, at least – he wouldn’t have to deal with living up to the “war hero” image the public expected. But visiting professors meant that Harry started every week tense, unsure if this teacher would be the one to fawn over him or get flustered or request an autograph.

The first two professors hadn’t been _that_ awful, seeming to merely feel awkward that Harry was part of their class. 

The visiting healer had treated him with the same polite firmness as she had everyone else, though she did stumble over her words the few times she had worked with Harry directly. 

The politics professor was a high-ranking ministry official and had ignored Harry completely, which was a pleasant change of pace – until Harry had raised his hand to ask a question. The man had given him one wide-eyed look of terror before turning away and continuing to lecture.

Hermione had been indignant and likely would have made a scene, but Ron understood Harry’s quick kick to his shin and whispered to his girlfriend to stand down.

Harry supposed he should have known that awkward rudeness wouldn’t be the worst of it. 

This week’s professor, Brogan Driffield, was a retired auror from America who was tasked with teaching the eighth years the art of Aperiomancy. He was a tall, spindly man, but his lean muscles and precise balance belied his advanced age. He was obviously still practiced in dueling. He also had a funny little white mustache, so small and tidy that it reminded Harry of a toothbrush.

Harry had been looking forward to learning from Auror Driffield, fascinated by the idea of Aperiomancy. When performed correctly, Aperiomancy spells allowed a witch or wizard to see visible traces of magic. Harry was excited to learn the process of visually untangling spells and tracing them back to their source. Something about learning the shape of magic appealed to him in a visceral way.

Unfortunately, Driffield was a disappointment, boring them all with two full days of incomprehensible magical theory (even _Hermione_ had been confused), before ever allowing them to use their wands. Even more unfortunately, he was constantly tripping over himself to praise Harry. 

Driffield would often pause to ask Harry questions about the material, and would then somehow twist Harry’s blatantly wrong answers until they segued neatly into his next point. If Harry hadn’t been so irritated by the whole thing, he might have been impressed by the man’s sheer obstinacy. 

By the time they started actually performing spells, Harry was cobbling together the most bizarre answers possible, trying to trick the professor into admitting Harry was incorrect.

It would have been almost fun, if it hadn’t been for Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy was the only one (besides Hermione) who seemed to begin to actually understand the professor as the week went on. And then, he had started to respond to the questions addressed to Harry. Malfoy spoke up hesitantly at first, but with more and more confidence as Harry continued to encourage him.

The first time it happened, Driffield had asked Harry for his take on the “Beltran Theory of Co-Dependent Magical Resonance.” Harry had paused, considering if he wanted to compare the idea to Pygmy Puffs or to the Giant Squid, when he heard a thoughtful breath from behind him. 

Harry had heard that same soft sound enough times in the past few weeks to know immediately who it belonged to. So he turned around and nodded at Malfoy, gesturing for him to speak. Malfoy gave him a quizzical look, but he answered the question.

After that, Harry turned to Malfoy every time Driffield sought out his opinion, and every time, Malfoy’s voice sent a shock wave through Harry’s veins. He tried to ignore it, but Malfoy’s quiet intellect stirred something in Harry. Who would have thought his old rival’s mind would be so… alluring?

Malfoy’s comments were well thought out and interesting and made a hell of a lot more sense than Driffield’s babbling. Once Malfoy started participating, things seemed to click for a lot of the eighth years, and suddenly other voices were offering opinions and answers.

But Driffield dismissed Malfoy’s contributions, listening with a distracted air before moving on, never validating Malfoy, except for the occasional mumbled _yes, that’s one way of looking at it_. Malfoy didn’t seem bothered – just coolly continued taking notes or practicing wand movements – but Driffield’s attitude was driving Harry _mad_.

Why treat Malfoy like that, if it wasn’t about the war? The war was supposed to be _over_. And what did this _retired, foreign_ auror know about the war, anyway? What sacrifices had _he_ made?

Harry ached to stand up for Malfoy, but he wasn’t sure Malfoy would appreciate the gesture. Harry had been watching him, and his approach to conflict seemed to be to disengage. Malfoy accepted the sneers thrown his way and moved on, head down. He was polite and quiet and did not stand up to anyone (though thankfully, there wasn’t much need for that among the eighth years, who seemed content to leave Malfoy alone). 

So day after day, Harry bit his tongue, afraid to do anything that might push Malfoy away.

They weren’t exactly _friends_ , but they weren’t _not_ friends either. 

In the nearly three weeks since that night at the lake, they had exchanged friendly nods most mornings, passed each other serving platters at meals or materials in class on three separate occasions, engaged in small talk at the bathroom sinks twice, _and_ had two more late night conversations, one by the lake and one in the common room after everyone had gone to bed.

Harry tried (and failed) to convince himself that it was not weird that he knew all that. His wand grip faltered, and he tried to subtly wipe his sweaty palms on his robes.

Just then, Driffield’s gruff voice echoed through the small room. “Change partners! It’s necessary to get a sense of the whole spectrum of magical frequencies. Otherwise, your resonance will be too narrow to aid your work.” He seemed to be ignoring the fact that none of the eighth years had yet cast a successful Aperiomancy spell.

Harry glanced sheepishly at Padma, who he’d paired with first today. They’d been “working” together for the last fifteen minutes and he was just realizing that he hadn’t cast a single spell. They were meant to be casting simple non-verbal spells, so their partner could practice recognizing the patterns of residue left by various kinds of magic.

Padma rolled her eyes at him, but smiled almost fondly before moving toward Hermione. Harry looked around for Ron and saw that he had partnered with Neville.

After one long breath of indecision, Harry gave in to the impulse he had been fighting all week and darted over to Malfoy.

Malfoy avoided Harry’s eyes for a minute, presumably seeking out other options. But Parkinson and Zabini were both already working with Hufflepuffs, so Malfoy turned back to Harry with a resigned sigh.

“Hello, Potter. Any luck with this yet?”

“Zero. You?”

Malfoy scowled. “Not bloody likely. I’ve used up all my intellectual energy making sense out of this daft git’s ramblings. I have never heard anyone speak such utter nonsense.”

“Really?” Harry challenged with a sly smile. “Not even Lockhart?”

Malfoy huffed out a startled laugh, then grinned, and Harry almost melted. He tried (and failed) not to add a fourth tally mark to his mental list of how many times he’d made Malfoy smile. 

Harry groaned inwardly, but managed to ignore his fluttering heart. He raised his eyebrows at Malfoy, still waiting for an answer.

“Alright, fine. I have never heard anyone speak such utter nonsense… about a valuable aspect of magical theory,” Malfoy corrected himself, still looking rather put out about Driffield’s inability to teach them.

“I was actually looking forward to this class,” Harry admitted. “I really wanted to be able to do this.”

“Why?” Malfoy asked.

“Why?” Harry echoed, perplexed. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why –” Malfoy elaborated slowly, as if he were speaking to a child - “do you want to be able to do this, Potter? I wasn’t under the impression that your studies mattered much to you, as your Potions marks can attest.” His arms were crossed and he quirked one eyebrow at Harry.

Harry’s mouth went dry. He never would have thought that eyebrows could be sexy, but apparently, he was wrong. He swallowed, and did his best to give Malfoy an annoyed look.

“Sorry,” Malfoy muttered with a shrug. “Reflex.” 

Harry snorted, but Malfoy was still looking at him expectantly, as if he really wanted to know.

“It just feels – important, I guess,” Harry offered, gesturing vaguely at his chest, struggling to put the gut feeling into words. He spoke slowly, working it out as he went. “To understand it, this invisible force we put into the world, you know?”

Malfoy frowned at him. “Are you suggesting that we only understand things that we can see?”

“No, of course not,” Harry said immediately, thinking of flight and music and curses – and the power of a mother’s love. Harry clenched a fist against his sternum, trying to pull his tangled mess of instinct and emotion out into the air, trying to weave it all into words. “I just meant – that it feels right. Magic lives inside us. I’d like to know what it looks like.”

 _But that wasn’t it, not exactly_ , Harry thought, suddenly frustrated. He might have let it go then, except Malfoy was still there, and he was still _listening_. He was leaning casually against the wall of the classroom, but his gaze was sharp, somehow both encouraging and intent. 

Harry had long ago come to terms with the fact that he wanted to understand Malfoy; he was still struggling with the idea that he might want something more than that from this strange, new Malfoy. 

He never would have thought that Malfoy might want to understand Harry in turn. But Malfoy was looking at him like he believed that Harry’s words and desires had value.

Harry again got the sense that Malfoy was offering him something, just like Harry had thought that first night they had sat by the lake.

And Harry wanted to offer him something in return. 

So he chased his gut instinct about Aperiomancy, scrabbled around his own brain until he could pin the desire down and get a good look at it. And then he understood.

It was about power, and control.

Instantly, Harry felt shaky and sick to his stomach.

He almost ended the conversation right then, but Malfoy’s steady grey eyes calmed him, and he felt able to continue. “It’s also because it could be - er, a weapon, of sorts. To help us fight.” Harry breathed in carefully through his nose to steady himself. “If I’m going to be an auror, I want to do _good_. I don’t want to hurt people for no reason, or to – to kill when I don’t have to. But if I can _see_ the magic that’s coming at me, or that’s been left as a trap, if I can understand it, I’ll be able to do the right thing, the most effective block or hex or counter-curse. And then maybe I can disable attackers without deadly force.”

Malfoy blinked, then seemed to consider Harry’s words. When he spoke, it was not the response Harry expected. “Do you want to be an auror?” he asked quietly.

Harry’s stomach sank. No one had asked him that question, not since his first career meeting with Professor McGonagall. “That’s been the plan, since fifth year.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Malfoy replied, quieter still. “Do you _want_ to?” 

Malfoy’s stare was no longer comforting. Harry could feel the tension mounting between them. It wasn’t hostile, but there was still a challenge in it. Harry resisted the urge to back away.

He looked at the ground, then forced his eyes back to Malfoy. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

Under Malfoy’s penetrating gaze, the statement felt more like a lie than it ever had before. Draco Malfoy saw far too much.

Harry braced himself for a confrontation, but Malfoy just hummed thoughtfully and let the subject drop. “I suppose we should get on with this farce of a lesson. Do you want to cast first or should I?”

The tension snapped, and Harry didn’t answer for a moment, unsettled by the abrupt shift. He felt shaken by the entire encounter. But then he shook his head. “I feel like we’re doing this backwards,” he groaned. “Can you explain the resonance thing again?”

Malfoy nodded. “All magic leaves traces – residue, if you will. And magic will always interact with other magic. We call that _resonance_. Aperiomancy spells are meant to interact with magical residue, or with spells themselves, in a way that makes the magical interaction visible. They allow you to see the resonance, which should then allow you to ‘read’ the spell, because different spells will resonate in different ways.”

Harry considered that, thinking back to Malfoy’s point that you didn’t have to see things to understand them.

“But magic reacts to all other magic, yeah?” he asked. “Not just Aperiomancy spells?”

“In theory, yes.”

“And the magical residue is always _there_ even if we can’t see it? It exists independently of Aperiomancy?”

“Well, yes,” Malfoy said slowly, suddenly looking thoughtful. “The Aperiomancy simply reveals it.”

Harry closed his eyes, mind whirring back to an idea he’d had the night before. As far as he understood it, Aperiomancy was advanced, highly temperamental magic. It required a thorough understanding of theory, precise wand movements, and ironclad focus, and even if you got all that right, it still might not work. 

But what if they used something else instead? What if they caused the reaction with a spell they’d already mastered?

Harry felt more than heard Malfoy step closer to him. A sudden intensity sparked between them, warmth rushing up Harry’s spine. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Malfoy had lit up like a bonfire, expression wondering and exposed. Nothing fueled Malfoy’s strange beauty like the pursuit of a new question.

“Potter,” he hissed, grabbing onto Harry’s arm. “If we used a different spell –”

Harry felt himself lean into the touch, smiling to hear Malfoy’s words echoing his own thoughts. But then he shook Malfoy off, unwilling to be distracted further. He held up a hand with a gentle “shhh.”

“But if it was a different spell, then it wouldn’t make the magic _visible_ , per se –” Malfoy muttered, apparently so absorbed that he forgot to snipe at Harry for shushing him.

Harry ignored him, because _you didn’t have to see to understand_. Eyes still clenched tight, he cast a soft but steady _Lumos_. He focused on the connection between his fingers and the wand, shifting his grip slightly on the grain. While maintaining _Lumos_ , he attempted to clear everything from his mind but his own magic. 

Harry sought out the connection between his body and the wand, and after several long heartbeats of nothingness, suddenly there it was, all at once. A muted, crackling energy zigzagging from his core to his heart to his arm and out through his wand. He felt the spell buzzing through him and holding steady at his wand’s tip.

“Cast something,” he whispered to Malfoy. “Don’t let me hear what it is.”

“Done,” Malfoy replied, seconds later.

Harry did not entirely understand what he was doing, but he stopped thinking about it. Instinctively, and without moving a muscle, he reached deep into his _Lumos_ and felt the sparks catch on the edges of his intention. And then he _pushed_. 

Cautiously, carefully, Harry expanded his magic outward, probing into the space between him and Malfoy. He felt sweat prickling at the back of his neck and his chest began to ache, as if he wasn’t drawing in enough air. He paused, then strained outward again, searching.

A jolt reverberated through Harry’s arm, startling him and leaving his fingers strangely numb. He bit back a curse, worried Malfoy would intervene if he thought Harry was hurt.

Harry was momentarily distracted by the strangeness of that idea – worrying that Malfoy would help Harry, rather than hurt him – but impatiently brushed the thought aside.

Because he had felt something. Malfoy’s magic.

Harry’s own magic had knocked against Malfoy’s and fizzled pleasantly. It felt shockingly _good_ , like a hot towel soothing the back of his neck. Harry chased the sensation, sinking deeper into Malfoy’s magic. It shifted in twisting spirals, moving away from Malfoy and toward Harry.

“You cast something at me, something that changes,” Harry muttered. “Transfiguration?”

Malfoy gasped, and Harry’s eyes shot open. 

The connection shattered. Harry could no longer sense the magic at all.

Malfoy was staring at him, eyes wide with wonder. “Potter,” he demanded, “how in Salazar’s name did you –” Malfoy trailed off with something that was almost a laugh, and shook his head.

Harry cast _Nox_ , and as he lowered his wand, he saw that his school robes had been transfigured into a Muggle suit with a fitted green waistcoat.

It was the exact same color as his eyes.


	5. curious minds and twitchy fingers

Harry was lying on the shore of the lake, hovering just on the edge of sleep, when Malfoy’s voice cut into his reverie.

Harry jolted awake and sat up at once, trying to conceal how badly Malfoy had startled him (and trying to ignore how badly he wanted to pull Malfoy down beside him).

Malfoy was standing rigidly above, demanding to know where Harry had been since he had rushed out of the classroom earlier. Apparently, Malfoy had been looking for him, and Harry almost had to lie back down when he processed that, dizzy with a sudden rush of warmth.

“And then, right in the middle of a conversation with Lovegood, I realized where you must be, but of course I had to stay and calmly discuss Grappling Gremlins with her for another _fifteen minutes_ before I could get away!” Malfoy paused to glare at Harry, as if the fifteen minutes between knowing where Harry was and being free to find him had been a burden too heavy to bear. 

“You never come down here before midnight. Are you _avoiding_ me?” Malfoy finished, hands fluttering unhappily at his sides in a way that belied his indignant tone. If Harry hadn’t known better, he’d have thought that Malfoy’s feelings were hurt.

“You were talking to Luna?” Harry asked, feeling slightly dazed. He was having a hard time keeping up with the conversation. Craning his neck up at Malfoy felt awkward, and he longed to take Malfoy’s hand, to soothe and reassure him.

This wasn’t how their conversations usually went. They were still so _careful_ with each other, even late at night with only the moon and stars to overhear. They never spoke immediately, instead settling next to each other and adjusting to the strangeness of sharing the same space. Simple camaraderie did not come naturally to them; they were far too used to snarling at each other.

“Yes, of course,” Malfoy answered. “She’s lovely, and the Grappling Gremlins are actually quite –” He cut himself off and scowled. “Stop distracting me, Potter! That is not the point, as you well know.”

Harry almost smiled at him, despite Malfoy’s obvious irritation. This spark of challenge between them felt – _right_. It was everything they used to be, but without the pain. Harry wanted Malfoy to push him, and he wanted to push back, just so long as they weren’t out for blood. They had hurt each other enough.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Harry started, but Malfoy huffed out a disbelieving breath. A few strands of hair – the ones that always seemed to escape his bun – fluttered, then fell back into his eyes. Harry shifted in the grass, subtly adjusting his trousers. Messy-haired Malfoy never failed to get under Harry’s skin, and it was getting worse, not better, the more time they spent together. 

“I wasn’t,” Harry insisted. “Are you going to sit down?”

Malfoy started, as if he had just realized he was still hovering over Harry like a disapproving schoolmarm. He sank hastily to the ground, knocking his knee into Harry’s thigh. Malfoy looked horrified and scooted backward, hugging his arms to his chest and training his gaze on the far shore of the lake. 

Harry let out a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper, feeling oddly bereft at the loss of physical contact. He leaned deliberately back on his hands, forcing himself not to move in toward Malfoy.

Neither of them said anything for a time, reverting back to their normal hesitance. Malfoy seemed to be quietly seething, perhaps working himself up to another outburst. Harry amused himself watching the stormy expressions flit across Malfoy’s face. The silence was obviously driving the other man mad. Malfoy bit his lip and Harry had to stifle a chuckle.

Malfoy was dressed in Muggle clothing again, as if determined to toy with Harry’s heart. He had on plaid pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, the look startlingly similar to Harry’s own t-shirt and soft joggers.

Harry felt his cheeks heating, remembering when he had changed clothes after class. He thought of the care he had taken, running a hand over the transfigured robes before hanging them neatly in the very back of his wardrobe. He didn’t know when he would ever have the opportunity to wear the sleek black suit, but Malfoy had made it for him, in a way, and it would have felt wrong to change it back.

The night of the Reclamation Ball flashed again through Harry’s mind. Malfoy ensconced comfortably on the garden bench – cheeks flushed from the crisp evening air, eyes dancing with the joys of discovery, fingertips caressing the delicate petals of flowers.

Harry shivered, silently wishing for another chance to see Malfoy in a suit and waistcoat, fantasizing vaguely about what it would be like to slip his hands beneath the jacket and draw it off Malfoy’s shoulders.

At that, Harry shook his head almost violently, wrenching himself away from the image. Malfoy jumped, and the movement seemed to shatter the last of his restraint.

“Well?” Malfoy demanded. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Tell you what?” Harry asked.

“About Aperiomancy, you daft git! Are you _trying_ to torture me, or are you actually that thick? Tell me how you knew what my spell was.” Malfoy’s hands were tightly clenched, and he looked pained, as if not knowing for even one more second would be the thing that finally killed him.

“Right,” Harry muttered. Desperate as he was to share this with Malfoy, to satisfy his old rival’s insatiable ( _and frankly, charming_ ) thirst for information, exhaustion weighed on him again at the prospect of trying to explain it all. He scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes and tried to focus. 

“Look Malfoy, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run off like that. I was in my room during dinner, trying to do it again.”

Malfoy waved away the apology and tucked his legs beneath him, leaning eagerly toward Harry. “Did it work?” he asked, almost breathless with anticipation.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “I think it did.”

Malfoy blinked at him. And then a smile of pure wonder bloomed across his face. 

Harry had seen that look on Malfoy before, had seen him sparkling with questions as he trailed questing fingers over mysterious flowers. That night in the courtyard, Harry had seen beauty in Malfoy for the first time, and it had stirred something in his soul. Harry had thought he’d understood then, exactly how much Draco Malfoy’s intellect could move him, but in reality, he was entirely unprepared for what it would mean when those sharp grey eyes finally turned to him.

Malfoy was looking at Harry in _awe_ , like Harry alone held all the answers that Malfoy so desperately wanted to chase. 

And just like that, Harry stopped fighting it. Maybe he’d never really been fighting it at all.

He _wanted_ Draco Malfoy.

He wanted to walk with him to class and fly with him on weekends and pull him into alcoves to capture his lips and tug at his hair. He wanted to wake up next to him and whisper about their dreams. He wanted to hold him after nightmares. He wanted to be there when Malfoy had a new idea, when he smiled softly at some unexpected pleasure, when he was frustrated or scared or hurt. He wanted to follow him around the castle, not to find out what he was up to, but because he _already knew_ and was part of the scheme. He wanted to drink tea with him in the morning and trace pathways of desire over his skin at night and while away their days with silly arguments.

Harry wanted it _all_.

Because this brilliant, curious man with messy hair and Muggle clothing and twitchy, excitable fingers was who Draco Malfoy was supposed to be. 

Harry spared one moment to thank the universe for the miracle that was Draco Malfoy – that this part of him had survived, that he had not been crushed beneath the weight of family and war. 

And then, exhaustion forgotten, Harry told Draco everything.

About coming back to the dorm and locking himself in his bedroom and casting spell after spell. About clenching his eyes shut and chasing the shockwaves of his own magic. About the lethargy that had settled over him. The sudden and overwhelming thickness of the air. How he’d had to flee outside to escape it, and then found himself trying yet again by the edge of the lake.

Malfoy interrupted constantly, mind racing ahead of Harry’s, meeting his every statement with exclamations and explanations and dizzying torrents of theory.

And when Harry described how he first did it – how he had felt the magic move beneath his skin – Malfoy traced a finger along the path Harry described, from his heart up across his chest and down his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Malfoy’s fingers rested against Harry’s and lingered one heartbeat too long. When Harry looked up, Malfoy was staring at his mouth. Harry’s breath caught and he tightened his grip, but Malfoy pulled his hand away.

“It’s not Aperiomancy then,” he remarked abruptly, shifting subtly away from Harry.

Harry tried to swallow his disappointment and shook his head slowly. “No, I didn’t think so.” 

“Good.” Malfoy shot him a smug grin.

“Er – what?” Harry asked, discomfited by the sudden change in mood.

Malfoy shrugged. “I was annoyed you could do it and I couldn’t,” he admitted. “You didn’t even understand Aperiomancy this morning! It was infuriating.”

Harry laughed.

“I feel much better now,” Malfoy continued. “It’s likely some obscure kind of physical magic that you’re inexplicably brilliant at, even with no study.”

Harry wrinkled his brow. “And that’s… _less_ annoying than me being good at Aperiomancy?”

“Yes, of course,” Malfoy replied matter-of-factly.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been beating me at physical magic for years, Potter,” he drawled out, as if this should have been obvious to Harry. “It’s not about your brain. Remember our first flying lesson? Do keep up.”

Harry shook his head at Malfoy, but he couldn’t help being amused, especially when he thought back to the first time he’d flown. Funny that he’d never really acknowledged Malfoy’s role in the joy of that day. As he swooped upward, robes flapping behind him in the wind, he had felt in control of something for the first time in his life. And with it had come a rush of freedom that he’d never quite forgotten. 

And Malfoy had been there at the edge of it, goading Harry and focusing him, somehow making the entire experience sharper and more thrilling. Flying had been wonderful, but the challenge – one he was equipped to meet head on, rather than having to run from – that had been _everything_.

Harry smiled to himself at how young they had been, and then turned back to Malfoy.

“Oh, so long as you’re the smartest person in the room, everything’s alright?” he teased gently.

Harry had expected a snarky comeback, something light and playful, but a strange tension overtook Malfoy. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “No, I’m afraid that honor belongs to Granger.” 

He glanced at Harry tentatively, clearly unsure if he should have spoken, if he was allowed to mention the girl he had so relentlessly bullied. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about it either, though he could tell that Malfoy had meant his words; the compliment had been genuine.

Malfoy tugged down his sleeve where it had been riding up, then left his hand there, tightly gripping his wrist. 

There was an awkward silence, and Harry could sense the divide between them widening once more. They’d been building bridges these last few weeks, but their past had dug that chasm deep, and some days Harry wasn’t sure they could make it across without falling. There was unfinished business between them, and so many things left unsaid.

There was a rustle in the underbrush behind them and they both jumped. A small animal darted across the shore of the lake. An owl glided silently after it, a graceful grey ghost on the hunt.

Harry pushed away the image of a younger, crueler Malfoy, choosing to turn away from the uncertainty that accompanied it. All he wanted was to chase this new thing between them. He may not have known exactly what it was, but it felt _good_ , and for now, that was what mattered. He was tired of the past. He’d had enough of regrets and darkness.

Harry deliberately shifted closer to Malfoy and roughly nudged his shoulder. “Well, as long as you’re smarter than me, then?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

Malfoy looked up and frowned in confusion, but then he seemed to understand what Harry was offering. His face softened.

“Exactly,” he replied with a self-satisfied smirk. It wasn’t up to his usual standard (it didn’t quite manage to be _withering_ ), but it was convincing enough to defuse the last of the tension between them.

They both laughed a little, and then Malfoy lay down in the grass. He tucked one arm beneath his head and closed his eyes, letting out a soft hum of contentment.

Harry felt a rush of tenderness toward him. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t lain beside each other before – they had, the first night Malfoy had followed Harry to the lake – but there had still always been something stiff and guarded about Malfoy. 

This was the first time that Malfoy seemed entirely at ease around Harry. He looked soft and vulnerable and oh so pretty, and Harry _ached_.

Harry lay down beside him, taking the opportunity to move closer, so their arms almost touched. He watched as Malfoy’s fingers twisted restlessly through the grass. Harry wanted to reach out to him, but he didn’t quite dare.

It was a long time later when Malfoy broke the silence.

“This wasn’t what I expected it to be like, you know. Seeing each other again.” His eyes were open now, but he kept them fixed on the night sky, not turning to Harry.

“No?” Harry asked.

“No.”

“What did you expect?”

Malfoy sighed out a long breath. “I don’t know. Certainly not quiet conversations by moonlight.”

They were quiet again for a time, the only sound the gentle lapping of the lake water when tiny creatures disturbed it. The sound was comforting; it created an atmosphere that seemed to invite confidences.

“I suppose I thought it would be more explosive, somehow,” Malfoy admitted. “Hurled insults, wands drawn, that kind of thing. If we even spoke at all.”

“What do you mean?” Harry rolled toward Malfoy and propped his head in a hand. He was surprised when Malfoy mirrored the movement, turning to face Harry.

“It wouldn’t have shocked me if we hadn’t said a word to each other all year.” Malfoy paused. “I might not have, if you hadn’t interrupted me in the garden.”

He sounded deeply sad, as if even contemplating the two of them not speaking was like suffering a loss. 

“You would have,” Harry responded, with more confidence than he felt. 

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

Malfoy leaned even closer, and Harry wanted nothing more than to fall into him. Tiny shocks of lightning seemed to be assaulting his veins. Malfoy’s lips parted and Harry nearly groaned. The air between them was thick and heavy with promise.

“Sure,” Harry said, tone carefully nonchalant, trying to regain some semblance of control. “We would have spent a lot of time staring at each other aggressively from across the room, and then you would have eventually snapped.”

“Or you would have,” Malfoy pointed out.

“Or I would have.” Harry shrugged agreeably. Then he actually thought about it and nodded. “Probably I would have.”

Malfoy smirked and settled back down in the grass – possibly to cover up something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

Harry was tempted to follow Malfoy – to lean over him, push the hair out of his eyes, and run a thumb along his cheek.

But Harry had something more to say, and he didn’t think he’d be able to admit it if he was looking at Draco.

Harry lay down again and opened his eyes to the sky. The stars reminded him of Sirius, and Sirius always made him brave.

“I think I just want to know you. I think maybe I always did,” Harry said softly.

The silence stretched on for a long time before Malfoy answered.

“I think maybe I did too.”


	6. trust in mistrust

Harry gasped and staggered backward, clutching at his temples.

Malfoy was there in an instant. He steadied Harry with a hand on his shoulder and helped him to sit on the bench behind them. It was the same bench they had shared their first night back at Hogwarts.

Harry slumped forward and struggled to catch his breath, lingering on the memory of Draco in his suit, surrounded by flowers. The image seemed to chase the ice from Harry’s veins.

“Are you alright?” Malfoy asked softly.

His hand was still on Harry’s shoulder. For a moment, Harry swayed toward the touch, before he quickly caught himself and straightened up. He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair, still gulping in deep breaths, then shook out his hands, trying to dispel the last remnants of the unpleasant sensation that had overtaken him.

Malfoy pressed in closer to Harry, but didn’t question him further. Anxious though he might be, he seemed willing enough to wait for Harry to recover. Harry could feel the heat of the other man’s thigh against his own, and focused on that until his pulse slowed, letting Malfoy’s presence ground him.

It was just after dawn, and the two wizards were in the courtyard outside the Great Hall, using Harry’s not-Aperiomancy magic ( _and gods, they really needed to come up with a better name for it, didn’t they?_ ) to examine the mysterious flowers.

Malfoy had insisted they meet well before breakfast, to avoid any awkward questions about what they were doing, though Harry wasn’t convinced anyone would care what they got up to with these unusual blooms. The rest of the castle seemed to regard them as no more than a pleasing decoration, if they paid them any mind at all.

Harry felt sluggish, as if he had to drag his mind tediously behind him, hoping it would eventually catch up. He would have preferred to complete this little mission last night when they’d first thought of it. The courtyard would have been deserted, after all, and Harry had been all for rushing into action, drunk on the chill night air and the gleam of Draco’s skin in the starlight. But the Slytherin had refused, claiming that it was _never wise to seek out unknown magic past midnight, Potter_. 

It had sounded like superstitious nonsense to Harry, but there had been something in the cant of Malfoy’s shoulders that made him seem deadly serious, and in the end, Harry hadn’t argued. He had learned enough about the wizarding world to know that sometimes even the silliest customs contained slivers of truth and wisdom. 

So he had gone to bed early, when Malfoy had, resigned to a restless night. Harry never slept well when he turned in before two in the morning. There was something about the deep hush of late night (and, he supposed, since he was trying to be honest with himself, something about the company of Malfoy) that calmed him enough to sleep.

It had only been a week since their admission that they wanted to know each other, whatever they had meant by that. Harry had thought there would be something strained between them after, awkwardness trailing in the wake of a little too much honesty.

But neither of them had pulled away. Instead, they had settled into a comfortable routine of nightly walks and conversations, and as Harry had tossed and turned in his bed last night, he’d realized he missed it. Missed _him_. Draco bloody Malfoy. 

He might have laughed at himself if the feeling hadn’t been so raw. Trying to sleep without first spending enough hours with Malfoy had made Harry feel – hollow, somehow. And that was rather alarming. He wasn’t quite comfortable being so dependent on the other man.

But that was a fleeting thought, easily disregarded, and when his wand had buzzed insistently that morning, the sun only a hint on the horizon, Harry had gotten up and dressed eagerly enough, before staggering off toward the castle.

His worries had fled with the last dregs of the night. When he had seen Malfoy waiting for him in the courtyard, framed against the pinkish sunrise, Harry couldn’t help but smile. 

And now, all but collapsed on the bench and pain still echoing through his body, he was more than grateful to bask in the familiar comfort of Malfoy.

They rarely interacted much before the evening hours, and as the sun rose higher in the sky, Harry had to admit that it was rather novel to see Malfoy lit up by the golden tones of daytime. His hair looked richer somehow, with dozens of shades of blond that made Harry think of wheat fields and autumn harvests. 

Harry wanted to bury his hands in its warmth and forget the slick unpleasantness he had just plunged his magic into…  
but he couldn’t. 

Because that slick unpleasantness was why they were here.

Now that Harry was no longer in obvious distress, Malfoy’s expression was becoming distant and calculating, his mind already turning back to their mystery. 

Harry had been caught up the last few weeks, distracted by teasing apart the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy, so much so that he’d almost forgotten the puzzle that was written across Hogwarts’ walls.

But Draco had not forgotten. Draco was still enchanted by the flowers, and if this was what Draco Malfoy was up to this year, then Harry _was_ going to be a part of it.

Harry breathed deeply, absorbing the clean scent of the flowers, and finally turned to face Malfoy.

“There’s something there,” he confirmed. “It’s inside the flowers, but also, sort of – spilling out? It’s concentrated at the center of the buds, but it’s also scattered. It flows down the vines and out into the air. I couldn’t really sense a pattern.”

Harry paused and ran his hand over the vines trailing along the back of the bench. The petals were different colors than they had been the night of the Reclamation Ball – deep purples and golden yellows and vibrant reds. He wondered if they shifted constantly between night and day, or if the change was a more subtle and lengthy process. 

Malfoy was fidgeting beside him. Now that Harry had started to speak, Malfoy’s manic, questioning intellect was back in full force. He was gnawing on his lip and clenching his hands in the fabric of his robes, as if to prevent himself from grabbing Harry and shaking more words out of him. 

Looking at him, Harry’s heart quivered a little and then throbbed painfully.

“The magic – or residue, I guess,” Harry continued, taking pity on Malfoy. “It was like little hooks gripping onto my magic. I tried to pull away and then everything went icy.” Malfoy frowned as Harry shuddered involuntarily. “You know when something is so cold it feels like it burns you?”

Malfoy nodded gravely.

“It was like that,” Harry finished. “All through me. It felt – wrong.” He sighed heavily, only now realizing the extent of his unease.

Malfoy’s eyes darkened with concern. “What do you need? What can I do?”

Harry blinked in surprise, oddly touched. He had been expecting an interrogation of sorts, but all traces of Malfoy’s impatience had vanished. There was a worried crease in his forehead, and he looked as though he genuinely wanted to help. 

But anything Harry asked for would be too much, for it would mean far more to Harry than it possibly could to Malfoy. Harry couldn’t risk that, not when every touch – every glance, really – made Harry’s longing that much worse.

“I’m alright, Malfoy,” he said, and attempted a smile.

Malfoy cocked his head skeptically, and his eyes roved over Harry as though he were checking for injuries. Eventually he nodded. But then he raised a hand and hesitated only a moment before brushing the hair away from Harry’s face.

Malfoy’s hand lingered, and Harry shut his eyes against the intensity of his want. 

Malfoy was worried, Harry told himself firmly, that was all. The gesture was a simple reassurance that Harry was safe and whole. Nothing good would come from expecting more from Malfoy.

Harry turned his head away and Malfoy pulled back. He coughed awkwardly.

“Could you tell what type of magic it was?” Malfoy asked. “Or if it was a certain spell placed on the flowers?”

“No, nothing like that,” Harry replied forlornly. He hated that he was disappointing Malfoy.

Malfoy looked puzzled. “But you knew what spell I cast in the classroom.”

“I didn’t though,” Harry corrected him gently. “It was just a good guess. Your spell was moving toward me, and the magic was constantly shifting. It felt like change, like Transfiguration. I got lucky.”

Malfoy drew this knees up to his chest and crossed his arms over them. Harry was starting to realize that his former nemesis tended to curl into himself when he was thinking. He wondered if Malfoy had always done that; it seemed far too adorable a habit for a haughty teenager to indulge in. It made Harry picture Malfoy as a particularly intelligent cat. He almost laughed then, because cats had always reminded him of dragons, in a way. _Draco_.

“This must be a type of magic we haven’t studied,” Malfoy mused. “You could tell that my spell was likely Transfiguration because you’ve learned Transfiguration. You understand it.”

Harry considered that. “Yeah, that makes sense. Like with Aperiomancy – seeing it isn’t enough. You have to learn what different kinds of magic look like.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy agreed, nodding approvingly.

“So what do we do now?” Harry asked. “How do we figure out what kind of magic feels like frozen hooks?”

There was a pause. 

“I don’t know,” Malfoy admitted irritably.

He looked quite put out about it, and Harry found it inexplicably charming. He wanted to smooth the worry lines from Malfoy’s forehead with gentle fingertips and kiss away his frown.

Harry resisted the impulse and stood up. He wandered to a shady corner of the courtyard, where the blooms were more heavily clustered, wondering if he should try his not-Aperiomancy again. After all, there was no reason for the beautiful flowers to feel so dark and frightening. Maybe he was overtired, or maybe he just needed more practice with this kind of sensory magic. Maybe there was something he had missed. 

He was gathering his magic when Malfoy’s voice rang out sharply across the cobblestoned walkway.

“Potter, stop that!”

Harry whirled on him. “What?” he demanded.

“Do not try again,” Malfoy ordered. He had risen from the bench and was glaring at Harry. “You’ll only hurt yourself.” His voice caught, despite the imperious tone. Harry could tell he was still worried.

“Malfoy, I’m _fine_ ,” Harry insisted, holding his arms out and gesturing at his uninjured body. “It startled me the first time, that’s all.”

Malfoy bit his lip and looked away. “It won’t change anything. We still won’t know what the magic is. It’s not sensible to tire yourself any further before we do some research.”

Harry groaned and flopped down on the grass. “You’re going to make me go to the library, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” Malfoy said unapologetically, then made his way over to sit across from Harry. He tucked his legs beneath him neatly and smoothed down his robes. “How else will we ever figure this out? It’s important, Potter.” 

Malfoy propped an elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his hand, his face taking on a grave look. Harry hummed noncommittedly and leaned back against the wall of the castle. He turned his face to try and catch the warmth of the rising sun.

Harry felt discomfited. He had been trying to distract himself, but the truth was, what had just happened had shaken his faith in this little pet project of theirs. He didn’t want it to be _important_. He didn’t want it to bite into his magic and freeze his blood. This was supposed to be harmless. Nothing more than an intellectual curiosity. A chance to wrap himself in color and beauty and the light of Malfoy’s eyes. 

Just this once, Harry had thought he’d get to explore Hogwarts’ mysteries for the joy of it, not because the world might be at stake. 

But he didn’t think this was going to be just a bit of fun anymore. And it didn’t seem likely that Malfoy would let him walk away from it either.

Malfoy’s fingers were busy, plucking dead buds off a vine that trailed through the brush next to them, but he kept glancing up at Harry before quickly looking away. Eventually though, there was nothing left in reach to prune. He gathered the withered petals in a small pile in front of him and sighed.

“Do you remember when I mentioned to you that something felt off?” Malfoy asked.

Harry hesitated, but then nodded slowly, not meeting Malfoy’s eyes.

Undeterred, Malfoy continued. “It’s getting worse. It’s always small things, but they’re worrisome. Blaise and Pansy have been – forgetful, distracted. And spells have been going wrong. Have you noticed anything like that?”

“No,” Harry answered adamantly.

Malfoy didn’t take the hint.

“Are you quite certain? It’s happening more and more frequently from what I’ve heard. Even Luna says she’s been having trouble with the most basic magical creature spells.”

Harry’s temper flared at the mention of Luna. Hadn’t Luna suffered enough? Hadn’t they _all_ suffered enough? Why was Malfoy trying to stir up pain and darkness?

“Well maybe it’s a side effect of being locked in your basement for months. Ever think of that, Malfoy?” Harry remarked nastily, with a cruel twist to the word _your_. Even as the taunt left his mouth, part of Harry regretted it, a tiny tendril of shame coiled in his gut. 

Malfoy’s fingers stuttered where they had been trailing through his pile of petals. He gripped his hands tightly together as his face paled. “Yes, trauma has a way of lingering and tightening its grip, doesn’t it?” he said carefully. “But Luna is so strong, and she worked at a magical creature reserve all summer with no trouble. Those spells are a part of who she is. They shouldn’t be failing her now.”

Harry said nothing.

“Have your friends noticed anything odd?” Malfoy prodded gently, clearly feeling uneasy but still determined to continue. “Have Granger or Weasley said anything about struggling in class, or –”

“Leave my friends out of this, Malfoy,” Harry snapped.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He started to rip apart the petals in front of him, one by one, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. 

“Alright, never mind that then.” 

Harry watched as Malfoy consciously stilled his hands, then placed them atop his knees. After a short pause, he leaned in toward Harry. “I’m worried about what you found in the flowers. What if its infecting Hogwarts somehow? Spilling into the air and poisoning our magic?”

“That’s a pretty big leap to make, Malfoy,” Harry grumbled. “Even if there is something wrong, it doesn’t mean it has anything to do with the flowers.”

“Potter,” Malfoy groaned, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Of course it does!”

“How do you know?” Harry demanded.

“I just do,” Malfoy snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry could see the vulnerability beneath Malfoy’s angry stance, and he softened slightly.

“But _how_ do you know, Malfoy? Explain it to me,” Harry pleaded. Maybe he could give up on a carefree year, maybe he could get behind this, if only Malfoy would give him a good reason. If only Malfoy would trust him.

“I told you, there were flowers like this at the Manor –”

“Yeah, so? For all we know there are flowers like this everywhere!”

An expression of hurt crossed Malfoy’s face, as if Harry had betrayed him. “That’s not true! There’s something strange about them. I know you’ve felt that too.” Malfoy’s tone was desperate now, begging Harry to understand.

Harry shook his head. “That doesn’t make them part of some dark plot –”

“Oh that’s rich.” Malfoy laughed derisively. “Harry Potter _not_ seeing dark plots around every corner.”

Anger flashed through Harry, heating his blood. “Piss off, Malfoy.”

Malfoy glared at him, but a moment later he cringed, looking chagrined.

“Potter, there was Death Eater magic at the Manor, there was Death Eater magic here,” Malfoy said softly. He was holding out his hands, palms raised – weighing the two situations and finding them the same. “These flowers are in both places. There has to be a connection.”

The mention of Death Eaters sent a shock wave of images through Harry’s mind. 

_Death Eaters in the castle. Spells arcing over the walls. Walking into the forest. Lying down to die._

“There was Death Eater magic everywhere!” Harry insisted, voice raising now. “There’s something else, something you’re not telling me.”

Malfoy looked down, mouth a hard, thin line of shame. He did not deny it.

_Death Eaters in the castle. The vanishing cabinet. Malfoy crying in a bathroom._

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Harry asked, voice breaking. _Death Eaters in the castle. Malfoy’s name on Harry’s map. Cursed necklace. Katie Bell, screaming._

Harry didn’t understand why Malfoy would be hiding something from him. _Death Eaters in the castle._ Harry had _forgiven_ Malfoy. _Dumbledore, cornered._ Malfoy hadn’t even apologized, but Harry had given him a second chance. _Malfoy, shaking. Malfoy, lowering his wand._ Harry believed in Malfoy, _fancied_ him, even. Didn’t Harry deserve better than secrets?

_Death Eaters in the castle. Poison in the wine. Ron, choking. Mudblood. Crucio._

Malfoy hunched into himself, eyes haunted. “Can’t you just trust me?”

Harry barked out a harsh laugh. “Trust you?” How could Malfoy even ask that, when it was so clear that he didn't trust Harry?

Harry stared at him challengingly, and Malfoy flinched away.

“Has all of this meant nothing to you?” he asked in disbelief.

“All of _what_?” Harry spit out between clenched teeth.

“I thought, I –” Malfoy floundered.

“What?” Harry threw up his hands mockingly. He leapt up, towering over Malfoy. “What did you think? That a few friendly conversations could erase everything you’ve done?”

_Death Eaters in the castle. A mirror, forgotten. Sirius, lost._

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, the usually soft grey hardening to steel. He slowly rose to his feet. “Of course. I should have known. The minute I refuse to bow down to Saint Potter’s every wish, I’m back to being Death Eater scum. Good enough to sneak around with past midnight, like some kind of cheap whore, but Merlin forbid I have my own opinion every once in a while!”

“How dare you?” Harry roared. “How dare you talk about opinions? As if yours have ever been anything but evil!”

_Death Eaters in the castle. Malfoy, crying. Mistakes. Sirius, gone. Remus, dead._

“Fuck you, Potter.”

_Death Eaters in the castle. A handshake rejected. Death Eaters at the Manor. Malfoy, broken._

Malfoy was shaking, and there was a glint in his eyes that could have been a sheen of tears. But when he turned and stalked away, his head was held high.

_Sectumsempra. Malfoy, bleeding. Malfoy, not fighting Harry. Malfoy, surrendering his wand._

Harry watched him go, anger dissolving. 

_Scared, Potter?_

He sank to his knees and collapsed forward, head in his hands.

_Yes._

It was midday before Harry could bring himself to leave the courtyard.


	7. bad omens and luminosities

“Oh, hello Harry!”

Harry yelped as a cascade of tiny pebbles rained down on his forehead. 

It was close to midnight and Harry had been sulking in the darkest corner of the common room for hours now. Being shut up in his bedroom had quickly grown unbearable, so after hardly picking at the dinner he’d requested from the house elves, he’d ventured out, slinking down the hallway as unobtrusively as possible, lest he run into anyone he didn’t want to see.

He’d meant to study. The workshop that week had focused on advanced defensive techniques, teaching them to take advantage of strategic charms, transfiguration spells, and even certain potions to supplement their response to threats. 

Harry knew that if he wanted to excel at the Auror Academy, this was the type of coursework he should pursue in the coming terms. He even had a vague idea about focusing his interdisciplinary project on developing not-Aperiomancy as an intelligence gathering tactic. 

But thinking about it made him feel strange – blurred at the edges almost, like he was stretching and dissolving at the same time.

Probably it was just a side effect of brooding over Malfoy. 

Harry knew he shouldn’t have said those things to him this morning. All he wanted was to run to Malfoy and melt at his feet. He wanted to take it all back, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t think Malfoy would want to see him.

Harry sighed. He retrieved the pebbles from where they had scattered across the sofa, and shoved them back into his pocket. He had collected them by the lake on his walks with Malfoy, and was rather embarrassed that he’d been caught enchanting them to fly in lazy spirals above his head. Not that anyone would know the significance of them, he supposed.

“Hello, Luna,” Harry finally replied. He smiled up at her, absurdly grateful for the distraction. Luna had an ethereal presence, as if she carried a better reality with her wherever she chose to go. And Harry could use a better reality right about now.

“It’s such a pleasant surprise to see you,” Luna said, perching on the arm of the sofa. She seemed to have at least a dozen colorful scarves wrapped around her neck and shoulders. There was even a thin pink and green one tying back her long waves of blonde hair. Looking at the pale gold locks made Harry wistful. He suppressed a groan.

“Why is it a surprise?” he asked, affecting a lightness he did not feel. “I do live here, you know.”

Luna laughed, eyes sparkling. “Oh I know that, silly. It’s just that you’re usually off with Draco by now.”

Harry sucked in a startled breath and then choked on it. Luna patted him on the back while he coughed, a bit pathetically, into the sleeve of his jumper.

“Are you alright?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Fine,” Harry spluttered, cheeks flaming. “I just hadn’t realized anyone had noticed, that’s all.” 

Luna gave him an uncharacteristically sharp look, but when she spoke, it was in her usual, dream-like tone. “Does it matter, if people notice?”

“Well, no –” Harry replied, stretching out the syllable. “It’s not, er – a secret or anything.”

“I should hope not,” Luna said, smiling again. “Draco is a good friend.”

“Is he?” Harry asked, taken aback by her calm certainty. He was strangely stirred by hearing Draco’s first name spoken aloud. Harry thought it sounded rather beautiful in Luna’s voice – it seemed to shimmer in the air between them, like music.

“Don’t you think so?” she asked him.

“Yes, of course I do,” Harry said, his response immediate and emphatic. He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled a bit wryly. How had he managed to forget what it was like talking to Luna? She was like an infusion of Veritaserum, though thankfully, she was about a thousand times more comforting.

“He was awfully kind to me during the war,” Luna continued. “He was kind to all the prisoners.”

“He helped you, when you were trapped in the Manor?” Harry asked. He looked at her tentatively, not sure if she’d want to talk about it.

“I don’t think we would have survived it, if not for him,” Luna stated calmly. Her matter-of-fact tone put Harry more at ease. “He brought soup most days, and he made sure we had blankets. He charmed them invisible. Isn’t that clever?”

“Yeah, he is clever,” Harry whispered, thinking of the way Draco’s fingers would tremble when he waxed poetic over some obscure piece of theory. Harry pictured those same fingers gripped anxiously around a wand, struggling to charm the blankets before his father could see. 

“When anyone fell ill, Draco knew just what potion would help. He brewed them all himself. He even healed my arm for me, after Bellatrix broke it.”

“He never got caught?” Harry shifted closer to Luna, desperate to hear more despite the awful ache in his heart.

“I don’t know. But sometimes he had bruises.”

“Bruises?” Harry echoed.

Luna nodded solemnly. “On his face. And one time, a split lip. He usually stayed longer with me on days the bruises were fresh. He never talked about it, but he’d sit by the bars and let me hold his hand. I told him about all the magical creatures I could see in his basement, and all the ones I wanted to find out in the world someday, and he told me about the properties of plants.”

“I didn’t know.” Harry leaned against the back of the sofa. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, struggling not to cry.

“Oh Harry, you couldn’t have known.” Luna reached out and grasped his hands in hers. "You had to stop Voldemort.”

“I know, but –” Harry shook his head. The words wouldn’t come.

“Where is Draco tonight?” Luna asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, feeling even more miserable than he had that morning when Malfoy fled the courtyard.

Luna squeezed his hands. “It’s alright, Harry. He’ll forgive you.”

“How did you –” he trailed off. There was no point in questioning Luna. Sometimes she just sensed these things. 

Luna released his hands and unwound one of her many scarves. It was a bright, cheerful red, with thin stripes of silver running through it.

“I made this for you,” Luna announced, wrapping it snugly around his throat. The yarn was smooth and slightly cool to the touch, and it smelled pleasantly of evergreen trees. “It wards off bad omens and it will attract Luminosities!”

Harry chuckled, feeling rather bolstered by the gesture. “Thank you, Luna. Will you tell me about the Luminosities?”

Luna smiled, settled herself comfortably into an armchair, and began to speak.

Harry must have eventually nodded off, lulled by the melodies of Luna’s voice, because he found himself jerking awake as Ron flopped down onto the sofa.

“Budge up, mate,” Ron said, nudging Harry aside. “Where’s Malfoy?”

“Why is everyone asking me that?” Harry grumbled, somewhat disoriented. He missed the gentle pressure of Luna’s fingers in his hair as she told him about the cooing mating calls of the Luminosities and explained how their light fractals could support proper immune function.

Ron looked at Harry like he was being purposely dense. “Maybe because you spend every night with him? We haven’t seen you after dinner in weeks.”

Harry gaped at him, speechless. _Ron knew?_ But there was no accusation in his tone. 

Hermione swatted at Ron’s arm, though she sat down in the chair across from Luna’s without comment.

“We were just talking about Draco,” Luna offered, despite the fact that they hadn’t mentioned him for at least an hour. “Harry upset him and now I think he’s hiding.”

“I never said I upset him!” Harry protested.

“Did you upset him?” Ron asked offhandedly, as if he didn’t care one way or the other.

There was a pause. 

“Yes,” Harry admitted, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Bummer,” Ron said casually, before leaning forward and rooting around underneath the sofa. He emerged with a shiny gold tin and held it out to Harry. “Mum sent biscuits. Want some?”

Harry glowered at him. But then he snatched the tin from Ron’s hands and shoved two biscuits angrily into his mouth. 

Ron and Hermione were sitting calmly, clearly relaxed, and Luna had started humming.

“Why are you being so weird about this?” Harry finally burst out, after swallowing his huge mouthful of chocolate and cherry.

“No one is being weird, Harry,” said Hermione.

“This is Malfoy, we’re talking about. _Malfoy!_ My arch-nemesis. He broke my nose!”

“Well, you were stalking him at the time…” Hermione pointed out.

“Why –” Harry stammered. “Why is no one freaking out?” He hated how vulnerable his voice sounded. His eyes were stinging with unshed tears.

Ron shrugged. “Mate, if you want to take the ferret on walks around the lake, that’s your business. Besides, he and Hermione practically have their own little book club. He seems alright.” Ron blanched slightly. “Don’t tell him I said that,” he ordered.

“A – book club?” Harry repeated, incredulous.

“It’s not a book club, Ron,” Hermione corrected.

The couple started squabbling good-naturedly. Luna was still humming as she sorted through her many scarves.

Harry didn’t care what it was. He felt like he was scrabbling at the edge of a cliff, and he wasn’t prepared for the fall.

“Will somebody, please, tell me what is going on?” Harry interrupted loudly. His voice cracked on the word _please_. The thought of Malfoy secretly being friends with Hermione, when Harry might have lost him forever, was shockingly painful.

Hermione gave him a pitying look, but her face smoothed over quickly enough that Harry wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.

“Nothing is going on, Harry. Draco and I both spend our free period in the library. After a few days of politely nodding hello and goodbye to each other, he came over to talk to me.”

“What? _He_ came over to _you?_ ” Harry interjected.

Hermione laughed. “I was surprised too. But he asked if he could sit down, and then he told me he’d been reading Fitzgerald and asked if I could possibly recommend any other Muggle authors he might like. He was very stiff and polite. I think he gets more posh when he’s nervous.” She shrugged. “I gave him some titles and now he comes and talks to me when he finishes one.”

“Is he still all – formal about it?” Harry asked, suddenly curious about this other side of Malfoy.

“Not when he’s talking about the books, no. We also discuss class sometimes. We’ve both been working ahead on the Arithmancy unit that’s meant to be the workshop focus in a few weeks. That’s always been my favorite subject. It’s – nice, having someone to talk to about it.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was all well and good for _him_ to forgive Malfoy, but he wasn’t the one Malfoy had targeted with racist slurs. 

“Did he apologize though?” Harry asked after a pause, not entirely convinced he wanted to know.

“No,” Hermione said, seemingly unbothered. “But I think he may be working up to that.”

Harry leaned toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you mean?”

“An apology is just words,” Hermione answered. “What he is doing instead is showing me respect. I think he’s trying to _earn_ my forgiveness, rather than burdening me with an apology I might not yet want to accept.”

Luna interrupted then, extracting two scarves and handing them to Ron and Hermione with an impish grin. Ron’s was bright orange and Hermione’s a warm, chocolate brown.

Ron looked amused and Hermione fondly exasperated as Luna babbled on about Luminosities being attracted to emotional intelligence. They both thanked her for the scarves, and the conversation moved on to other things.

But Harry could not stop thinking about Draco Malfoy.

It should have come as a shock, the things he had just learned. Except Harry wasn’t actually surprised.

Well, alright, he _was_ still reeling from the fact that Ron wasn’t all that bothered about Harry spending time with Malfoy. But aside from that, everything Luna and Hermione had said felt like a natural extension of the Malfoy Harry had been getting to know for weeks.

The words Harry had spit at Malfoy that morning flashed through his mind – _how dare you talk about opinions? as if yours have ever been anything but evil_ – and Harry felt a deep welling of shame. He shouldn’t have needed to hear these stories from his friends to know who Draco Malfoy really was.

Harry thought of what Hermione had said about apologies and realized that he had been waiting – waiting for Malfoy to _say something_ that would prove he had changed. 

Harry had been brushing aside his doubts about Malfoy, fleeing any thought of the man’s actions during the war, looking ahead to a future where Malfoy would say _he hadn’t meant any of it_ and then Harry would never need to think about it again.

But Malfoy didn’t owe that to Harry. He didn’t owe that to anyone. His past was a part of him, but it was no longer who he was. 

Malfoy didn’t need to say anything to prove that he had changed, because he had been _showing_ Harry that all along.

Harry tipped his head back, gazed at the rustling branches above his head, and let himself get lost in everything that was Draco.

Too much sugar in his tea. A thousand questions. Feverish intensity in his eyes. A steadying hand when Harry overtaxed himself. Careful penmanship. The way he lingered over letters to his mother. Sharp retorts and playful smirks and a shudder of displeasure the one time he’d dipped his feet into the chill waters of the lake. Potion ingredients. Musty old textbooks. Long sleeves hiding all the creamy skin Harry was so desperate to see. Regrets. Scars. That sweet smile Harry could only tease out of him very late at night. Tendrils of blond hair escaping his bun, glowing in the moonlight. Long, clever fingers wrapped around a wand. Flowers. The frown he made when he was thinking. The smell of fresh soil. His face lit up with discovery. How well he listened, whenever Harry needed to speak.

The images whirled around Harry, speeding up and spiraling ever downward, until Harry was sucked up and spit out into the place he did not want to go.

A bathroom, Malfoy slashed to pieces and bleeding on the floor. A boy with tears in his eyes. Afraid. Alone. And no one to help him. Not even Harry.

Malfoy had never been _evil_. And Harry could see just how hard he was trying to make up for his mistakes. He didn’t deserve anything that Harry had said to him.

Harry rubbed a hand across his eyes, hoping Ron, Luna, and Hermione were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice. His other hand snuck into his pocket, fingertips running over the smooth stones from the lake shore.

A short time later, Harry’s friends bid him goodnight and started to head toward the dormitories. Harry hesitated, but then called after Hermione.

“Hermione, could you stay a minute?”

“Of course, Harry,” she replied. She pushed Ron gently toward the door, then sat down beside Harry on the sofa.

He looked at her and then away, biting his lip. She waited patiently and made no move to pressure him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about Malfoy?” Harry finally asked.

Hermione sighed, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just, well, you’ve always been a bit – intense about him.”

Harry bristled at that, but Hermione was having none of it.

“Don’t you give me that look, Harry Potter. You know it’s true.”

Harry groaned and collapsed forward, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. 

Hermione’s voice softened. “I just didn’t want my experience with him to influence you. I wanted you to be able to work out what he meant to you, on your own terms, if you _chose_ to. I didn’t want to pressure you one way or the other.” 

They were quiet for a time, then Harry sat up and rested his head against Hermione’s shoulder. “Thanks, Hermione,” he whispered.

She gave him a little squeeze. “Just go talk to him, Harry. It’ll be alright.”

He nodded, and she cupped his face in her palm for a moment before saying goodnight.

Harry sighed, not sure what he could possibly say to Malfoy.

He was starting to think of Malfoy as a captivating puzzle box, all tangled up with no obvious solution, easier to break than think your way through.

And maybe that’s what their rivalry had been all along – Harry and Draco, all tangled up in each other without understanding why, lashing out to break what they could not solve.

But Harry didn’t want to break Draco anymore. 

Draco Malfoy was worth the effort.

On the way to his bedroom, Harry stopped in front of Malfoy’s door. He stared at it for a long time before continuing down the corridor. He let himself into his small room and crawled into bed without bothering to get undressed.

When dawn broke over the castle, Harry got up. 

He hadn’t slept at all.


	8. bedtime stories

Harry paced across the floor of his bedroom, muttering obscenities under his breath. Almost unconsciously, he projected his magic outward, tangling it into the folds of his invisibility cloak. 

The cloak was enveloped in magical residue that felt cool and fluid, but underneath, there was also something crackling with a steady kind of energy. It spoke of nights spent running through forests and the comfort of a fire at home. Harry did not know if it was possible for wizards long dead to have left magical fingerprints scattered across objects, but he liked to imagine that he was feeling an echo of his father.

More and more often over the past few days, needing a distraction from his misery, Harry had been exploring small corners of his world with not-Aperiomancy. He still didn’t know how to translate much of what he found, but sweeping his magic over everything near him was fast becoming second nature. 

Harry stopped abruptly in front of his door and gripped the knob, before letting out a frustrated growl. He resumed pacing.

It was Wednesday night. Harry had not spoken to Malfoy in five days, and he had finally reached his breaking point. It was past time to fix this, and Harry fully intended to do so – just as soon as the sun went down.

Harry ignored the fact that the colors of night had been creeping into his room for quite some time. He told himself he was waiting for the moon. Draco was a constellation, after all, and Harry and Malfoy’s careful friendship belonged to starlight.

Harry glanced sharply out the window at the gathering dusk. Without slowing his pace, he sighed and massaged his temples. It was getting harder and harder to pretend that this delay was due to anything other than his own nerves. 

_So much for that famous Gryffindor bravery._ Harry laughed bitterly.

After a miserable weekend without so much as a glimpse of Malfoy, Harry had tentatively looked forward to the week’s new workshop, hoping the class would somehow bridge the gap between them.

He had been sorely disappointed. 

A complex blend of Potions and Herbology, their lessons had been highly experimental and largely independent. Malfoy had spent the past few days sequestered in the front corner of the classroom, with no less than three cauldrons bubbling in front of him at all times. He worked feverishly, hardly even noticing the professor’s occasional lectures.

Harry had spent his time listlessly ripping apart herbs, not even trying to focus on anything other than the back of Malfoy’s flushed neck. Malfoy’s fingers had a habit of wandering into his hair when he was thinking, and on one very memorable occasion, he had tugged his hair out of its loosening bun and shaken it out, before tying it all back up more securely. 

Harry had had to flee the room for a long bathroom break.

To make matters worse, Malfoy and Neville had somehow partnered up.

Malfoy had hesitantly approached Neville only a few hours into the first class. Harry couldn’t quite hear what he said, but it seemed like he was asking Neville a question.

Neville had crossed his arms and given Malfoy a stony look, but something about the question must have intrigued him, because eventually he answered. The conversation continued and after a few minutes, Malfoy managed to drag a faintly protesting Neville over to his corner of the room. He pointed to one of the cauldrons and tipped a few flower petals into Neville’s hands. Before long, the two were engaged in a rapid back and forth, and Malfoy was almost knocking into Neville with his increasingly enthusiastic gestures.

Neville continued sitting with Malfoy after that, and when the two had shared a wide-eyed look of wonder over a potion that had turned a violent shade of blue, Harry had buried his head in his hands. 

Seeing Malfoy’s fiery intellect light up for someone else felt like a blade between Harry’s ribs.

There was a loud thump, and Harry clapped a hand to his forehead, cursing at the sudden burst of pain. He looked up and saw that he had collided with the corner of his wardrobe.

“Right. Bugger this,” Harry said aloud. He threw on a jumper and strode from the room.

Harry hesitated only a moment before knocking. But as the sound echoed down the long corridor, he realized he had no idea what he was going to say.

When Malfoy called out – _“just a moment, Pans!”_ – Harry hissed out a panicked breath and almost ran away. 

But then the door was opening and Malfoy was in front of him.

Harry couldn’t move. The grey of Malfoy’s eyes seemed to swallow him, lapping gently like the waters of the lake shore while somehow also crashing down in a wave over his head.

Neither spoke. Malfoy’s fingers twitched at his sides. Harry swallowed hard against the impulse to reach out and clasp Malfoy’s hands in his own.

Malfoy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, then frowned, a flicker of vulnerability warring with the steel of his expression. 

“Can I come in?” Harry burst out, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Malfoy replied, and the words stitched a pattern of despair into Harry’s heart.

But when Malfoy turned away, he left the door open. Harry’s breath stuttered.

He stepped cautiously into the room, closing the door behind him. Malfoy had retreated to the far corner. He scrawled a few lines onto a stray bit of parchment and then waved his hand over it. The note folded itself up and disappeared noiselessly. Malfoy turned his attention back to several bubbling cauldrons.

He was at a long lab table covered in Potions equipment. It spanned an entire wall of the room. There was also a wide bed and a bookshelf stuffed with fat tomes. The space was messier than Harry would have expected – novels on the floor by the bed, a towel slung over the wardrobe door, discarded teacups strewn about, ice blue bedclothes in cozy disarray. 

A window was thrown wide, inviting in the chill night air. Clustered on the sill were dozens of potted plants, petals fluttering in the breeze. With a slight pang, Harry recognized the glass-like flower from the Room of Requirement. It was shimmering at the center of Malfoy’s little garden.

The bedroom was almost as appealing as Malfoy himself. Harry imagined what it would be like to wake up here in the mornings – how good it would feel to roll over slowly and gaze across the room at Malfoy, already up, poking and prodding at his vast array of cauldrons, his skin aglow in the morning light. 

Harry’s pulse jumped. He tugged at the hem of his jumper and shifted his weight awkwardly. Malfoy’s back was to him, shoulders tense, and he was scribbling complex notations into a large book. Harry could make out a few numbers, as well as long lines of unfamiliar symbols.

Almost by reflex, Harry let his magic uncoil from his fingers and spill out into the room. It bumped against Malfoy’s and entwined with it, seeming to stretch luxuriously into the pleasant fizzles that emanated from Draco.

Harry had no reason to believe that the feeling of a wizard’s magic would reflect their emotions – in all likelihood, Malfoy’s magic always fizzled, whether he be content, heartbroken, or furious – but Harry couldn’t help the swirl of hope that danced through his chest. Malfoy had let him in, and his magic felt welcoming. Surely that meant everything would be alright?

“You can sit down, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, without turning away from his work.

Harry grinned, feeling even more encouraged, and made his way to the foot of the bed. He sat down and peered over Malfoy’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked.

Malfoy swatted him away. “Stop breathing on me, Potter. This is very delicate work.”

Malfoy added a shimmering powder to one cauldron before inserting a glass rod into another. He stirred the potion with precise motions, then cast a wandless stasis charm over the whole table.

Only then did he swivel on his stool to face Harry. 

“I’m experimenting with the glass flower we found,” he said, tone neutral.

“How’s it going?” Harry asked.

Malfoy pursed his lips. “Not particularly well.”

There was a strained silence. Malfoy crossed his arms and tapped one foot against the rungs of the stool.

Harry cracked first. “I’m sorry,” he offered, not meeting Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “About my failed experiments?”

Harry flushed. “No. I mean, er – that too, I guess.”

When Harry did not continue, Malfoy sighed and hunched into himself a little further.

“What do you want, Potter?” he asked.

He sounded so resigned, so worn out, that Harry couldn’t bear it for a moment longer. He raised his head and looked directly at Malfoy. 

“I’m sorry about Saturday. For what I said to you. I didn’t mean any of it, Malfoy, I swear.”

Malfoy bit his lip and looked away. His fingers tightened on his elbows. “And it took you five days to come to this conclusion?” His voice cracked on the number.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. _Had Malfoy been counting too?_

“No,” Harry said desperately, leaning forward and gripping the bed’s footboard. “I wanted to take it back before you even left the courtyard.”

“Why didn’t you?” Malfoy asked softly.

Harry’s throat was dry. He swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Malfoy repeated, voice flat and dangerous. But then his eyes darkened and he ducked his head. Quietly, he said, “It doesn’t matter, Potter. It’s not like I haven’t heard those things said before.”

Harry had to stop himself from reaching out to lift Malfoy’s chin. “It doesn’t mean they’re true,” he insisted. “And it doesn’t mean you deserve to hear them.”

Malfoy huffed out a hollow laugh. “I was a Death Eater, Potter. A few insults from you is the least of what I deserve.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well if the bloody Savior says it, it must be true,” Malfoy quipped, but there was no humor in his tone. He turned away from Harry and rested his head against the desk.

It felt like a dismissal, like Malfoy expected him to go, but Harry wasn’t giving up that easily. He shuffled back to where the bed met the wall and leaned on it, letting the breeze from the window drift pleasantly across his face. It calmed him.

The word “Savior” had stung, as it always did.

Harry didn’t expect strangers to understand, and he didn’t expect Malfoy to either, but even his closest friends seemed to believe that his actions during the war were beyond reproach – any mistakes washed away by the victory against Voldemort. But that didn’t sit right with Harry. It never had.

How was he ever supposed to overcome his guilt if no one let him acknowledge it?

And in that moment, looking at the unhappy line of Malfoy’s back, Harry realized that the inverse was also true. How was Malfoy ever supposed to overcome _his_ guilt, if no one who looked at him could see past it?

Without consciously deciding to, Harry began to speak.

“Sirius Black was my godfather. I don’t know if you know, but he was innocent. He never betrayed my parents, never worked for Voldemort. I got to know him after he escaped from Azkaban third year.”

Malfoy didn’t sit up, but he did turn his head slightly, as if he was listening. Harry took a deep breath, struggling to keep his tone light and conversational. 

“He was probably the closest thing I ever had to a father. But he died. Fifth year.”

Harry paused, gathering himself. He didn’t particularly want to tell this story, but he was acting on instinct. Offering Malfoy something beyond _I’m sorry._ Because Hermione was right. There was more to earning forgiveness than just those words.

“Er – this is a whole other story really, but Voldemort had this weird mind thing with me. He could make me see things, and at first they were true, things that were actually happening, but later –” Harry trailed off, struggling with how to explain it. “Anyway, I was supposed to take lessons with Snape, to keep Voldemort out of my head. But I didn’t work at it, and then I – invaded Snape’s privacy, and he refused to teach me after that.”

Malfoy didn’t move, but Harry could tell he had his attention. A taunt line of tension hung between them.

“At the end of fifth year, Voldemort tricked me into going to the Department of Mysteries. He put a fake image in my head, of Sirius being attacked there. And I went. Even though I knew I was supposed to be keeping Voldemort out of my head. Sirius had been at home, perfectly safe, but he went to the Department of Mysteries to save me, and he died there. Bellatrix killed him.”

Malfoy stood up and made his way slowly over to the bed. He climbed up and crawled over to Harry, sitting close enough that they were almost touching.

Pressure was building behind Harry’s eyes and his throat felt raw, but he managed to continue. “If I had tried harder at my lessons with Snape, none of it would have happened. But that’s not the worst part. Snape was in the Order. And he was there that night, before I ran off. He could have contacted Sirius. Dumbledore swore over and over that Snape was on our side. But I couldn’t trust him. So I went to the Department of Mysteries and Sirius died. My godfather is dead because I couldn’t see past my prejudice and hatred to trust a Slytherin.”

Harry closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. After several measured breaths, he turned to look at Malfoy, offering him a wan smile.

Malfoy reached forward, as if he was going to touch Harry, but he dropped his hand instead and started fidgeting with his cuffs. Then he stilled and met Harry’s eyes. 

“Snape didn’t make it easy for you to trust him.”

“And no one made it easy for you to make different choices, Malfoy. It doesn’t mean the mistakes don’t hurt.”

Malfoy paled, but Harry pressed on.

“We haven’t ever really talked about the war. And we don’t have to. I was wrong to try to force you to tell me whatever you didn’t want to say in the courtyard.” Harry shifted forward and gently squeezed Malfoy’s wrist. “You’ve been a good friend to me this year. I should have been a better friend to you.”

Malfoy’s eyes went wide and his focus shifted to a point over Harry’s shoulder. A shudder passed through him. Finally, he nodded slowly, then pulled his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them. The movement jostled Harry’s hand, and he let go of Malfoy reluctantly.

“I knew he was wrong, you know,” Malfoy whispered.

“Voldemort?” Harry asked gently.

Malfoy shook his head. “My father.”

Harry’s fingers tightened, rumpling the fabric of Malfoy’s blankets.

Malfoy swallowed hard. “Fourth year – after the Quidditch cup –”

He didn’t finish the thought, but he didn’t need to. For a long moment, the past descended, widening the gulf between them. The shadows that had been creeping into the room grew more ominous, morphing into specters of men in masks, a skull and snake, Muggle bodies writhing in the air.

But the past did not have the power it once did. Because Harry and Draco were finally choosing to acknowledge it, banishing its darkness with their own light.

Impulsively, Harry took Malfoy’s hand, and Malfoy did not pull away. The shadows retreated. Malfoy gripped onto Harry tightly, and continued.

“I didn’t know how to – I couldn’t _leave._ I was scared, all the time. And I thought, if I could just be who he wanted me to be, think what he wanted me to think, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Malfoy’s voice was a thin rasp, and he looked so fragile, like even a gentle wisp of wind could tear him to pieces. Harry longed to take him into his arms, to stroke his hair and kiss away the hint of tears, to whisper over and over that it was all ok now, that he was safe. 

But Harry couldn’t do any of those things, so he just kept hold of Draco’s hand, running his thumb over his palm in soothing circles.

Malfoy huffed out a breath, then sat up straight, stretching his legs out across the bed. His eyes hardened, and he raised his chin.

“That’s why I testified against him,” Malfoy said, words ringing out strongly in the hush of the room. His vulnerability had retreated back inside his walls.

“You testified against your father?” Harry asked quietly.

Malfoy frowned. “You didn’t know?”

Harry shook his head. The only trials he had attended were Malfoy’s and his mother’s, so he could speak on their behalf. Hermione had wanted Harry to go to the others, claiming it would help provide closure, but Harry had refused.

Harry thought back to Malfoy’s trial, recalling how gaunt Malfoy had looked, as if he barely had the strength to hold himself upright. Harry’s palms had ached afterward, sore from how tightly he had gripped the arms of his chair with every aggressive question Malfoy had been asked.

When it came time for Harry’s testimony, he had been desperate to meet Malfoy’s eyes, but the other man sat with bowed head and did not once look up.

Harry remembered how much he had wanted to see Malfoy after the trial, just to reassure himself that there was still some fight left in this hollow, pencil sketch version of his nemesis. To push him and feel him push back. 

But in the end, Harry had chickened out, standing frozen as he watched Malfoy escorted from the courtroom. The next day, Harry had owled Malfoy’s wand to him, and was rather surprised to receive a polite thank you note in return. 

Harry looked at Malfoy now, marveling at how different he already was from that broken boy shackled to a chair in the courtroom. He was glaring out across the room, spine straight, as if he would not bow before even the memory of Lucius Malfoy.

“Everyone thought I did it in exchange for leniency. They were wrong.” Malfoy’s voice was sharp as the edge of a knife, his eyes glinting with the same steel. “My testimony was not a condition of my release. And I would have testified against that bastard even if they threw me in Azkaban for it.”

Malfoy leaned toward Harry, pinning him in place with a fiery stare.

“He was wrong. All my life he taught me the wrong things. I needed him to know that I would never stand behind his filth and his lies ever again.”

Malfoy’s eyes on Harry’s were desperate and pleading, as though he needed Harry to believe it more than he had ever needed his father to. 

Harry didn’t know what to say, but he looked back at Malfoy steadily, doing everything in his power to project acceptance, and faith, and trust. He could only hope that Malfoy would see it.

Malfoy flushed deeply, and averted his eyes. He pulled his hand from Harry’s and scooted backward toward the head of the bed. He poked around his pillows and emerged with his wand, already casting something toward the lab table.

Soft music filled the room. Harry didn’t recognize it, but the melody twined with the sounds of the night, lyrical piano chords swirling through the rustling of leaves, punctuated with the chirps of crickets and the occasional croak of a frog.

Malfoy sighed and relaxed against the wall.

Harry leaned back too, and for a time, they both were lost in the music.

Slowly, the room darkened, until they could no longer see each other’s faces. It made Harry brave, and he tentatively broke their silence.

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

There was a pause.

“Was there ever a time when you wanted the Dark Mark?”

“No,” he replied, voice haunted.

“I didn’t think so,” Harry whispered.

He could tell that Malfoy expected him to ask the obvious question, but he didn’t. And maybe that’s why Malfoy chose to answer it.

“They immobilized me and put it on me screaming. Then Voldemort cast _Cruciatus_ on my mother and told me to remember the price of disobedience.”

Harry sucked in a painful breath and shifted along the wall toward the center of the bed, a foot closer to Malfoy.

In time, their eyes adjusted, enough that Harry could see the tiny shifts in Malfoy’s expression as the music played on. Malfoy’s tongue darted out to wet his lips and then he slowly turned his head to Harry.

“Potter?”

“Yeah?”

There was a pause.

“In the courtyard – it was my fault too.”

Harry opened his mouth to disagree, but Malfoy stopped him.

“I shouldn’t have kept pushing. I could tell you were – upset.”

Harry shook his head. “I was scared.”

“I know,” Malfoy whispered.

He closed the gap between them, until his shoulder was brushing Harry’s.

Eventually, the music stopped, and Malfoy angled his body toward Harry.

“Are you alright, Potter?” His fingers skimmed Harry’s cheek. “You’re not usually so pale.”

Harry almost nuzzled into the touch, lulled by the gentleness in Malfoy’s voice. His face was so close, Harry would only have to move a few inches to kiss him.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said.

 _I missed you,_ he thought.

And somehow, maybe Draco heard the words Harry could not speak, because he didn’t prod Harry toward the door or insist they go to bed. He just hummed once, softly, and leaned back again, shoulder still touching Harry’s and head once more against the wall.

***

When Harry blinked awake, the sun was in his eyes and his cheek was pillowed against something firm. He looked up and smiled drowsily at the sight of Draco – hair mussed and neck at an awkward angle where he was still propped against the wall. Harry closed his eyes and snuggled more deeply into the blankets. For the space of a single breath, he was perfectly and blissfully content.

Then his eyes snapped back open.

His head was in Malfoy’s lap, his cheek pressed against a deliciously strong thigh muscle. Malfoy was breathing quietly, thankfully still asleep, but his fingers were tangled in Harry’s hair. The light pressure against his scalp felt good – _too good,_ Harry realized, as he tried to shift carefully away.

_Oh Merlin._

Harry was in Malfoy’s bed.

Harry was in Malfoy’s bed and Malfoy’s hair was tousled around his face and Harry was _hard_ , harder than he had been in a long time, cock throbbing and digging painfully into the seam of his trousers.

He needed to get out of this room, right fucking now.

He had _just_ made things right with Malfoy. He couldn’t risk losing him again, couldn’t stand the thought of making Malfoy uncomfortable and watching him pull away.

Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, but before he could climb out of bed, Malfoy’s eyes opened. Harry hastily pulled a blanket into his lap, covering his obvious erection.

Malfoy stretched, grimacing as he rolled his neck, then caught sight of Harry.

And he smiled.

It was the kind of smile that Harry had only glimpsed once or twice, and only late at night, when Malfoy was too tired to hide. It was open and warm and surprisingly sweet, and the sight of it, illuminated by daylight for once, rather than obscured by shadow, was more than Harry could handle. His heart took flight, and he very nearly fell forward into Draco in a rush of desperate arousal.

“Morning, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, voice still slurred with sleep. “I see we never bothered to go to bed last night.” 

He groaned and reached up to rub his neck. 

The sound just about _ruined_ Harry. He wished Malfoy was groaning for a different reason, wished he could cover Malfoy with his body, wished he was the one making Malfoy writhe and moan.

Malfoy’s hand caught in his hair and he brushed it impatiently aside. Harry watched, mouth dry, eyes fixed on that pale expanse of skin, so soft and tantalizing under the pressure of Malfoy’s massaging fingers.

The bed creaked as Malfoy got up, looking down at his wrinkled clothes with an adorable little pout.

“It seems the price of your company is far too high, Potter. My shirt is ruined! Begone from my sight! I may never recover.”

Harry gasped softly and bit his lip, stomach roiling unpleasantly, even though he knew Malfoy was joking. 

The hurt must have shown on Harry’s face, because Malfoy gave him a soft look before throwing his hand to his head in a mock swoon. “Begone, devil! My wardrobe is too precious to risk on the likes of you.”

Malfoy shot him a crooked grin, and then started rummaging around for clean clothes. He looked over his shoulder at Harry, who was still sitting in bed.

“No seriously, Potter, get out. I have to shower before class,” he ordered, still smiling indulgently.

“See you later, Malfoy,” Harry said. He was aiming for a casual tone, but the result was rather breathy. He winced slightly, then scrambled off the bed and fled the room.

Harry slammed the door to his bedroom, slapped up a privacy spell, and flung his wand aside. His hand was down his trousers and around his leaking cock before his knees even hit the floor. Images of Draco flashed through his mind.

Draco, stretching, shirt rising up.

_ah, fuck, yes_

The creamy skin of his neck.

_mmm, harder, faster_

Those pale eyelashes, face soft with sleep.

_oh! oh please_

All that pretty gold hair that Harry wants to bury his fingers in. Tug out the bun, watch it all spill out and tumble down.

_oh gods, oh Merlin_

It was over in seconds.

Harry came in long spurts, remembering the sound of Draco’s groan.


	9. to reveal, to feel

The rest of the week passed quickly, now that Harry and Malfoy were speaking again. With Malfoy by his side, chattering enthusiastically to Neville about the effect of herb categorization on distilling efficiency, Harry didn’t even mind the discomforts of the stifling hot classroom. 

Still, by Friday night, he was more than ready for some air that was not heavy with the odors of brewing. Harry had wanted to spend the evening out at the lake, sitting with Malfoy at what he was more and more frequently thinking of as _their_ spot.

But Malfoy was having none of it.

He had insisted they retire back to his room instead, as he had _indispensable work to get done, Potter! I’m sorry, but my potions take priority over your nighttime wanderings._

Not that Malfoy was getting much work done at the moment.

Harry sat on the bed, somewhat bemused (but also rather charmed – _because let’s face it,_ he admitted to himself, _when was he not charmed by this insane man?_ ) as he stared down at the lump of Malfoy on the floor. 

When the two had arrived back at the dorms a few minutes ago, Malfoy had cried, “The price of victory is steep! I think you’ve killed me, Potter!” before collapsing with a dramatic groan.

Harry was not concerned. 

Yes, they had just engaged in a rather vicious duel, but Malfoy had given as good as he’d got, so if Harry was fine, then so was Malfoy.

Harry chuckled as he rolled his shoulders, working out a few kinks. He reclined on the bed in satisfaction, realizing that the ache felt surprisingly good. Apparently, sparring with Malfoy had been an excellent idea.

The whim had struck as they’d crossed the grounds toward the common room. A twilight breeze billowed by them, catching in their robes and whispering mischief in Harry’s ear until he could no longer bear the thought of stillness. 

Harry had shifted subtly into a dueling stance, letting Malfoy draw a few steps ahead. Just as he was deciding what to cast – something harmless, but provocative enough to earn retaliation – Malfoy spun to face him. Harry didn’t know if his rival’s quick mind had guessed his intent or if there was just something in the night air, but when Malfoy flashed a devilish grin and knocked Harry off his feet with a wordless Impediment Jinx, it ceased to matter. The game was on, and it felt _brilliant._

Laughing in delight, Harry countered the spell easily, then jumped up and shot stinging hexes at Malfoy, to no effect. The beautiful git blocked them with a yawn.

“Is that all you’ve got, Potter?” Malfoy had taunted, hair flashing gold in the last rays of the setting sun. “Why don’t you go find a second year to play with?”

Harry grinned and shot off a truly nasty Blood Boiling Hex that Malfoy neatly dodged. He used his momentum to swing himself around to Harry’s other side and hit him squarely with a clever unbalancing spell that Harry couldn’t quite shake for the rest of the duel. 

He’d had to work twice as hard after that, constantly recalculating his aim, shifting his stance, self-correcting – and all the while, Malfoy danced effortlessly around him, the embodiment of grace.

The duel had raged on for the better part of an hour as they scarpered around the darkening grounds. The spells flying between them grew increasingly inventive, both competing to take advantage of their surroundings. Harry was particularly impressed when Malfoy had charmed leaves to divebomb themselves into Harry’s t-shirt, creating a distracting itchiness that persisted long after he had banished the offending foliage.

Harry retaliated by spelling pebbles beneath Malfoy’s feet, causing the other man to topple into the lake. Upon resurfacing, Malfoy immediately popped off a spell that dried his clothes and momentarily deafened Harry with the same gust of wind. This bought him enough time to knock Harry back with several minor hexes in quick succession. Regardless, Harry counted the maneuver a win. He may have lost ground, but he had also _savored_ the high-pitched squeal the chill waters had shocked out of Malfoy.

Several of their classmates had walked by on their way to the common room, some shaking their heads and some laughing, but Harry and Malfoy paid them no mind, neither willing to look away from his opponent. 

There had been that one moment though, when Harry’s Knee-knocker Jinx had gone wide, and Malfoy had hastily thrown up a Shield Charm in front of the passing Hannah Abbot and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Justin scowled in Harry’s direction before the two scurried off. 

Malfoy had gone right back to dueling, as if the interruption was hardly worth noting, but Harry had felt a warm pang in his chest, and his attacks weren’t quite so pointed after that.

Unsurprisingly, the duel had come to an end a short time later.

Harry was tangled in vines, hands strung up above his head, tied securely to a large tree branch. Wand in the dirt at his feet, he was completely at Malfoy’s mercy. 

As the other man stalked closer, Harry went entirely still, a very different kind of adrenaline flooding his veins. 

Malfoy crowded into Harry, pressing his wand against the pulse point of his throat.

“Scared, Potter?” came the familiar taunt, and Harry’s heart pounded in a dizzying rush. He felt lightheaded, and shakily sucked in some air.

Malfoy was so close, mouth open as he panted from exertion, breath warm against Harry’s neck. The hair at Malfoy’s temples was damp with sweat, darkening into a deeper gold. His eyes held a victorious glint that Harry wanted to drown in. 

Harry yanked at his restraints, but not to resist or continue the duel. No, he had surrendered entirely to his ex-rival’s dominance. 

But with Malfoy looking at him like _that_ – pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, teeth bared and almost predatory – Harry was blinded by the desperate need to touch. The vines chafed against his wrists and grew tighter. His fingers ached to caress the skin beneath Malfoy’s jaw. 

“I win,” Malfoy breathed out, the words echoing like a promise between them. 

Wand still pointed at Harry’s throat, Malfoy pressed in even closer, eyebrows quirking in playful challenge. Harry forgot how to breathe.

And then his hands were free and he was falling forward into Malfoy.

Lightning shot through Harry’s body as Malfoy caught him, lasting one blissful second before Malfoy grinned and shoved him backward into the tree.

And then Harry was falling again, _through the tree_ this time.

He landed flat on his back in the eighth year common room. 

Hannah shrieked in surprise, but laughed when she saw it was Harry. She rolled her eyes at him, still giggling, and moved to join some of the others around the bonfire.

Malfoy appeared beside him a second later, looking almost rueful. He yanked Harry to his feet and reached out to brush the dirt off his sleeves.

“Alright, Potter?”

Harry swatted at Malfoy’s hands, already mourning the loss of their heated moment outside. 

“You dirty cheat,” Harry said in lieu of answering, but there was no bite to his words. “I might have won if you hadn’t pushed me into the common room!”

“Nonsense, Potter,” Malfoy replied. “I won well before that.” He smirked and handed Harry his wand, before heading in the direction of the bedrooms.

Harry had waved goodnight to Ron and Hermione, who were sitting by the fire, then trailed after Malfoy, eyes lingering on the tight fit of his trousers.

Harry sighed, wishing he had chosen to sit on Malfoy’s stool, or perhaps the floor, when they had entered the room a few minutes earlier.

He could feel the ghost of Malfoy’s breath on his skin and his blood thrummed with the thrill of it. Fighting Malfoy, being bested by him, submitting to him, even – it had been like a delicious kind of foreplay. Lying in Malfoy’s bed now, knowing that Malfoy didn’t feel the same, was the worst kind of torment.

Harry rolled over onto his stomach and gazed down at Malfoy, wondering if maybe he should leave. But then Malfoy let out a full-bodied laugh and sat up. He leaned back against his wardrobe with his hands behind his head. He sighed happily, and that was all it took. Harry was staying.

“That was brilliant,” Malfoy said. “I haven’t had that much fun in years.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Me neither.”

“Maybe we _should_ have a seeker game sometime,” Malfoy continued, glancing at Harry slyly. “You did offer, Potter. Don’t think you can get out of it now, just because you lost our duel.”

“I’ll win next time,” Harry said, but Malfoy didn’t scowl the way he had expected. 

“We’ll see about that, Potter,” Malfoy said, shaking his head fondly.

Malfoy pushed himself off the floor, frowning slightly as he rubbed his wrist. Harry looked away, struggling to suppress a flash of concern. He remembered the way Malfoy’s hand had snapped back under the force of Harry’s _Expelliarmus._

Harry had laughed when it happened, delighted by the speed of Malfoy’s wandless Summoning Charm. His wand had never even reached Harry. 

But now, Harry felt a twinge of regret. He wanted to go to Malfoy and take his hand, soothe the ache with gentle fingers.

A muffled boom echoed through the room as Malfoy reached his lab table. Harry jumped, but Malfoy just peered interestedly into one of the cauldrons. He took a few powders off a shelf and began mixing them in a small crucible.

As he watched Malfoy’s careful movements, Harry’s dueling high began to fade.

Standing there, back straight, forearm muscles working as he steadily ground herbs into his mixture of powders, Malfoy looked so – settled. This was a man who knew what he wanted, a man who worked toward it with quiet certainty.

Harry found himself wanting to run a hand up the sure line of Malfoy’s back, not because he desired him ( _though he did, always_ ), but because he longed to taste, just for a moment, the strength and peace of it. Of building a future instead of dreading one.

Harry _loved_ dueling. Dodging spells, the rush of magic whizzing past him, sweat dripping into his eyes, shooting out counter-curses and blocks so quickly it was more reflex than decision. It woke him up inside, made him feel alive again, and tonight had been no exception. 

Malfoy was an impressive opponent – the best, by far, of anyone Harry had fought in last week’s eighth year defense workshop, equal even, to the adult wizards Harry had fought in the past.

But now that the adrenaline was leaving his system, Harry felt drained and sick. In the wake of their mock battle on the grounds, Harry could not as easily ignore the unease that was growing in him. Thoughts of the Auror Academy, and of a veiled threat at Hogwarts, crowded into Harry’s mind, eclipsing the joys brought by the physical challenge of an honest fight.

In the classroom or on the grounds with Malfoy, it was all a game – so far removed from reality that Harry couldn’t fear it. When he thought about it in the context of real life though – as a career, or in response to a new darkness that he did not yet understand – all he could remember was the relief of dying, and the burden it had been to realize he’d come back. 

“Maybe _you_ should be an auror,” Harry blurted out, sitting up and scrambling toward the foot of the bed, closer to Malfoy.

Malfoy looked over his shoulder at Harry, an odd expression on his face. “Right,” he said slowly. “Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater scum – an auror.”

Something in Harry’s chest cried out in protest at the word _scum._ “You’re better at dueling than me,” he offered.

“No,” Malfoy said, already turning back to his cauldrons. “I beat you _once,_ Potter.”

Harry frowned. It wasn’t like Malfoy to deflect a compliment, or to ignore the opportunity to boast. “Fine,” he allowed. “But you’re just as good.”

Malfoy spun to face Harry fully. He looked confused. “I don’t want to be an auror. I want to invent potions.”

“I know,” Harry said. He did know. He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying.

Malfoy sank onto his stool. “I’m afraid I am not following this conversation.”

“I didn’t mean you should become an auror.” Frustrated with himself, Harry ran a hand through his hair.

“Potter, you’re being more than usually dense.” Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest. “That is literally what you just said. ‘Maybe you should be an auror,’” he parroted back to Harry.

Harry sighed and let himself lean against the wall. Malfoy’s curtains fluttered in the breeze from the open window, caressing Harry’s face. He pushed them aside. “I just meant – I don’t know what I meant.” He huffed out a harsh breath, bringing a hand up to massage one of his temples. “I’m supposed to be an auror, and I know part of that is the ‘defeated Voldemort’ thing, but I _am_ really good at Defense.”

Malfoy leaned forward and nodded, patiently encouraging Harry to continue.

“I just thought, if you’re just as good as me, and you’re not going to be an auror –” Harry trailed off.

“Then maybe it isn’t the only option for you?” Malfoy finished for him.

Harry flushed and looked away.

“You don’t have to be an auror, Potter,” Malfoy said, voice soft and soothing.

Harry hummed non-committedly, not ready to acknowledge it out loud. 

But under Draco’s contemplative gaze, surrounded by flowers and cauldrons and a dozen other visible markers of Malfoy’s interest in life, the lies Harry told himself finally crumbled. He didn’t want to be an auror, hadn’t wanted it for months, if not longer. He’d been walking toward that future like a man to the gallows, simply because it was expected of him.

But maybe it was ok to want something unexpected. Something that would light a fire in his eyes, like Potions did for Malfoy.

Harry didn’t know what that thing could possibly be, but he did know that he never would have thought to look for it if it hadn’t been for Draco. 

Harry glanced back at his former rival – his friend, really – and felt a rush of emotion threaten to spill into tears. He suddenly wanted to thank Draco, to tell him how much he was helping him and how much that meant, but he couldn’t find the words.

Instead, he coughed roughly and cast around for a change of subject. 

“What are all these books for?” he asked, noticing that several large textbooks had replaced the pile of Muggle novels by the bed.

Malfoy pursed his lips, and Harry could tell that he was considering pushing the auror conversation. Harry’s hands twisted anxiously in the blankets. He felt Malfoy’s stare, but then the other man simply sighed and leaned back against the lab table. Harry’s stomach unclenched.

“I’ve been doing some research into our little flower problem, though I haven’t had much luck,” Malfoy explained. His mouth twisted wryly.

“Malfoy!” Harry shouted, rising to his knees and scrabbling toward him.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Fuck,” Harry said emphatically. “I can’t believe I haven’t told you!” He shook his head, furious with himself. He’d been trying so hard not to think about the darkness at the center of the flowers, and what it might be doing to his friends, that he had forgotten about the one genuinely good thing he hadn’t yet shared with Malfoy.

“Well do go on, Potter. I haven’t got all night.” Despite the impatient words, Malfoy’s tone was warm and amused.

“I went back to the courtyard last weekend, after –” Harry broke off, shame squirming awkwardly in his guts.

Malfoy didn’t seem to share his qualms, finishing the sentence matter-of-factly. “After we fought. And?” he prompted.

“I tried it again, and I realized –”

Malfoy leapt to his feet and leaned over Harry, bracing his hands against the bed’s footboard. “What?” he cried. “You messed around with that demon flower magic alone? Potter, of all the stupid, irresponsible things you’ve done, this is surely –”

“ _Not_ the worst?” Harry interrupted. “Like not even close?”

Malfoy cringed, but then he lowered himself back onto the stool. “Fine. But you still shouldn’t have done it.”

“Ok, you’re right.” Harry held up his hands, conceding the point. “But I wanted to figure it out for you –” Harry blushed, then blurted out the rest – “to make up for what I said.”

“Oh.” The word was high pitched and oddly breathy. Malfoy ducked his head, pale strands of hair obscuring his expression. “And then you blundered ahead into a completely different kind of apology and forgot all about the potentially important discovery you made?” he finally grumbled.

Sheepishly, Harry nodded.

“Bloody Gryffindors,” Malfoy muttered under his breath. But when he looked up at Harry, his smile was genuine. “Tell me.”

Absurdly relieved, Harry began to explain. “I’ve been practicing with my magic, using not-Aperiomancy –”

“Not-Aperiomancy?” Malfoy cut in scornfully. His eyes were narrowed in disbelief. “ _That’s_ what you’ve been calling it?”

“Er – yes?” Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“Potter, you dunce!”

“Well, what do you call it?” Harry challenged.

Malfoy answered immediately. “Sentiomancy.” 

“Sentiomancy?” Harry repeated.

“Aperio means ‘to reveal.’ Sentio means ‘to feel.’” Malfoy shrugged.

“Huh. That’s pretty clever, Malfoy.”

He rolled his eyes at Harry. “It’s really not. You need higher standards, Potter.”

Harry threw his hands up in exasperation. “Do you want to hear about this or not?”

“Yes.” A wide smile bloomed across Malfoy’s face. He stood up and resettled himself next to Harry on the bed, crossing his legs beneath him and leaning forward. “I certainly do.”

Harry shifted toward Malfoy, until their knees were almost touching, and began to speak.

When Harry had returned to the courtyard the morning after his fight with Malfoy, he wasn’t sure if he was punishing himself or taking comfort in the lush beauty of the last place they had spoken.

Either way, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be, so he lay down in the grass and brooded. But after a time, he found that he wasn’t quite as miserable as he expected to be. 

The sun on his face was pleasant and the colors of the strange flowers – this time, a pale medley of white, gold, and ice blue – seemed to suit his mood. The scent that wafted over him was soothing, lulling him to the brink of sleep. Just as he was about to succumb to it, he recalled how calming the smell of the blooms had been the night of the Reclamation Ball. He’d been all worked up – jittery from the pressures of the “adoring” public and unsettled by his reaction to the apparently incredibly fit Malfoy – but breathing in the crisp perfume of the flowers had instantly relaxed him.

Harry jolted upright with the memory, eyes snapping open. If the flowers were _evil_ , as he had been forlornly assuming since the day before, then why were they so comforting?

He supposed it could be a trick – the colors and scent luring the victim close. But that didn’t feel right to Harry. He had always had an uncanny ability to sense deceit and falseness. It was why he’d been able to resist the Imperius Curse – something about the preternatural calm of it pricked at his suspicions. These flowers however, could not be more different; Harry didn’t get any warning bells from them at all.

An idea formed, and Harry frowned, knowing Malfoy would disapprove of what he was about to do. That thought was almost enough to stop him. 

But Malfoy wasn’t here. And this, Harry was sure (if he could confirm what he was beginning to suspect), would light Malfoy up again. Harry wanted to give him that – a peace offering, of sorts. Something to make the other man curious, a new question to make him smile.

Harry steeled himself and cautiously extended his magic into the delicate buds on the vine above his head. The icy shock bit into him, but he didn’t let it consume him this time. He took a steadying breath and waited for his body to adjust to the cold. Then he _pushed,_ just a little further, letting his magic caress the silken petals as gently as Malfoy had touched them on their first night back.

And suddenly, there it was. Clear and strong and distinct.

Beneath the sharpness of the hooks, Harry had found the magic of the flowers. It was like dipping his fingers into the tin of balm that had once soothed his Quidditch injuries. Laughing aloud in relief, Harry armored himself in it. The hooks retreated, the pain fading away.

“Then the flowers aren’t evil at all!” Malfoy cut in, before Harry could even finish explaining.

“No,” Harry answered, with a cautious smile. “Their magic is entirely separate from the darkness I felt. I’m sure of it.”

Malfoy laughed and swiped a hand over his face. Harry caught him staring at the glass-like flower they had found in the Room of Requirement, expression wistful.

“I knew it,” he whispered. “I _knew_ the flowers were good. They’re fighting something, Potter. Whatever the nasty thing you felt is, Hogwarts is using the flowers to fight against it.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “That’s what I thought too.”

“So we’ll help the flowers,” Malfoy said, finally looking away from his windowsill garden. His eyes caught Harry’s, steady and determined.

Harry nodded.

They were quiet for a time. Malfoy had hauled several of the textbooks onto the bed and was flipping through one, muttering under his breath.

Harry broke the silence. “Malfoy?”

“Yes?” He looked up, marking his place in the book with a finger.

Harry hesitated. He hadn’t wanted to talk about this part, his heart still stubbornly insisting that he deserved a quiet school year. But he couldn’t ignore it anymore. It was important, and Malfoy deserved to know.

“I think you might be right,” Harry said softly. “About the darkness in the flowers infecting us somehow.”

Malfoy closed the book. “Tell me,” he said again. And he reached out to take Harry’s hand. 

Harry gripped on tightly, thankful for the anchor. “Hermione has been making little portable fires since our first year. She casts them without thinking half the time. But yesterday, it took her two tries and then the flames sputtered out after only a few minutes. She laughed it off, said she must be tired. But I don’t think that’s it.” 

Harry paused. The words were coming more easily than he expected. 

This was about protecting his friends, he realized belatedly, and nothing more. It didn’t have to be another exploit for the aurors to fawn over. _Because Harry didn’t have to be an auror._ Trying to fix this didn’t mean he had to chase that future.

Harry was still scared, but the realization bolstered him. He felt stronger as he continued. “Neville’s plants are dying.”

Malfoy’s brow wrinkled in confusion, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He raises rare cacti, has developed all sorts of growth spells. I spent a few afternoons with him, when you and I – er, weren’t speaking.” Harry bit his lip, then shook his head slightly to clear it. “He said everything he casts has the opposite effect of what he intends. They’re all withering away to nothing. He showed them to me, and I touched them, with not – with Sentiomancy –” Harry almost smiled, catching Draco’s tiny smirk. “It felt the same as what was in the flowers.”

Malfoy’s eyes darkened and he tightened his grip on Harry’s hand. “Pansy’s wand has been shocking her. Whenever she tries to do magic on herself. Hair spells, that sort of thing. She said it feels like a stinging hex, but stronger.”

“That’s awful,” Harry said.

“It is,” Malfoy said, head bowed.

Harry was quiet, not sure what else to say. 

“Has your magic been functioning properly?” Malfoy eventually asked, thumb gently caressing Harry’s wrist.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes. For now anyway,” Malfoy said with a sigh.

Harry blanched. He let go of Malfoy’s hand and pulled his knees into his chest, resting his forehead against them. “What are we going to do?” he asked, voice muffled.

“It’ll be alright, Potter,” Malfoy said, resting a hand against Harry’s back. Harry could feel the heat of it through his shirt. “The information from your clandestine courtyard trip has given me an idea.”

Harry lifted his head. “Yeah? Tell me.” Despite everything, he smiled at the taste of one of Draco’s phrases in his mouth.

“Not yet,” Malfoy replied. He gestured at his temple. “It still needs to _brew_ ,” he finished, slightly emphasizing the word brew. He glanced at his cauldrons, then gave Harry a smug, sideways look.

Harry snorted. “Did you just make a Potions pun?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter, as per usual.”

Malfoy chuckled dryly and dragged himself off the bed. He crossed the room and ducked behind his wardrobe. A minute later he emerged, wearing a loose long sleeve shirt.

“You can stay if you want,” he said casually, facing away from Harry as he folded the collared shirt he’d been wearing and placed it inside his wardrobe.

“What?” Harry asked, pulse stuttering as he watched Malfoy shuck off his trousers. He was wearing snug black boxers underneath. It was nothing Harry hadn’t seen in the Quidditch lockers, but _Merlin._

“You can stay the night,” Malfoy clarified, padding back over toward the bed and climbing in. “I know you don’t like to sleep alone.”

“How did you –” Harry trailed off, not quite wanting to admit to it. He was thrown by how easily Malfoy had seen through him. But then, maybe Malfoy didn’t like sleeping alone either. Maybe Malfoy had nightmares too.

“It’s why you go to the lake at night,” Malfoy said simply, answering Harry’s unfinished question. 

Harry stared at him.

“I’m lying down this time, though,” Malfoy continued, seemingly unperturbed by Harry’s silence. He tossed a pillow to Harry and snuggled into the blankets. “My neck still aches.”

Harry looked down at Malfoy, whose eyes were already closed. He hesitated for only a moment before removing his own trousers and placing his glasses carefully on the windowsill. He lay down on his back, head turned toward Malfoy. He could see the ridges of the other man’s spine through his thin shirt. Harry shivered and closed his eyes.

***

Harry woke on his side, curled toward the center of the bed. The early dawn light was spilling in through the window. The sheets beside him were warm, but Harry was alone.

Still drowsy, he squinted across the room and saw the blurred outline of Draco, standing over his potions. His hair was loose for once, tumbling over his neck in soft waves. The collar of his shirt was crooked, exposing one pale shoulder, and he hadn’t put his trousers on yet. Harry admired the curves of his calves, the quiet strength there. He sighed dreamily and melted back into the bedclothes. 

As he drifted to sleep again, Harry couldn’t help but feel that whatever darkness was at the center of those flowers, he and Draco, together, were equal to it. 

For the first time since feeling those icy hooks dig into his skin, Harry believed, right down to his bones, that he and Draco would figure it out. 

Soon, all would be well.


	10. revelry and ruin

Harry and Malfoy sat side by side on the edge of Malfoy’s bed, thighs pressed together.

Neither spoke. 

Malfoy had an open book in his lap, long fingers worrying the edges, but he wasn’t reading. His eyes were a fixed point on the flames he had built up at the lab table. There were no cauldrons there. Harry suspected Malfoy simply wanted the reassurance of a fire.

The room was warm and cozy. Harry had slept in Malfoy’s bed every night for a week now, and every day a new comfort had appeared – a shaggy grey rug, thick and luxurious under his feet in the morning chill; an extra hook by the door where he could hang his robes; a second stool at the lab table; a larger wardrobe with several additional drawers; and most notably, a gorgeous red and gold blanket folded neatly on the foot of the bed. 

Harry didn’t know if Malfoy was responsible or if the eighth year dormitory magic was intuitive as well as benevolent, but he didn’t suppose it mattered much either way. Malfoy had made no objection to the changes (despite the fact that the Gryffindor blanket looked shockingly out of place against the pale blue bed spread), and Harry just about swooned every time he glimpsed these physical reminders of their friendship, evidence of two lives slowly melding together.

Most nights, Harry felt more at home in Malfoy’s room than he ever had in his own.

Tonight was not most nights.

“Are you sure Luna’s ok?” Harry asked, nudging Malfoy’s shoulder to get his attention.

“No,” Malfoy answered. “But she doesn’t need or want anything from us right now.”

“You’re sure?” Harry couldn’t help adding.

“Yes, Potter.” Malfoy sighed wearily, but Harry knew the sigh wasn’t directed at him. “I was with her before dinner. She was calm, and said she needed to be alone for a while. She was planning to take a walk to visit the thestrals.”

Harry shook his head. “She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I know.” Malfoy’s hands tightened on the book, crinkling the pages. He winced slightly, and smoothed them down again before setting the volume aside. “Neville promised to keep an eye on her. She’ll probably know he’s following her, but she won’t chase him away.”

“Luna’s not even an eighth year,” Harry said, the thought only now occurring to him. “Why is she with us? If she hadn’t been in our workshops, maybe –”

“It wasn’t the workshop, Potter,” Malfoy said gently.

Harry’s fingers flexed, longing for the steady grip of his wand. As if a wand would help, as if they could trust that any spell wouldn’t be tainted.

When Harry didn’t respond, Malfoy continued. “I imagine she feels closer to us than to her seventh year classmates. Most of them were here at Hogwarts for their sixth year. She wasn’t. Her traumas were different than the ones that bind that class together.” Malfoy smiled sadly then. “Besides, can you imagine anyone telling Lovegood that she wasn’t allowed to be with us?”

Harry chuckled softly. “No, you’re right. She’d just smile at them vaguely and say the nargles were confusing them.”

“Then she’d show up to our lessons, whistling, as if she were exactly where she was meant to be. If anybody asked her to leave, she would offer them sweets –”

“Or a scarf!” Harry interjected.

“Yes, or a scarf, or an odd piece of advice, and they would be so baffled that they would just start the lesson.”

They both laughed. 

Malfoy tucked a few stray strands of hair behind his ears. “Luna is a marvel,” he finished.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed out.

They lapsed into silence. For a moment, their humor had brightened the room, almost as if Luna’s ineffable spirit had descended, brushing away their worries as easily as cobwebs. But in the wake of their laughter, the darkness rushed back in, crushing Harry and Malfoy under its weight.

Last week, after Harry had admitted to himself that Malfoy was right – that whatever was in the flowers was likely infecting Hogwarts – he had started to see more and more signs of it. 

It had been discomfiting – though, oddly, all the things that went wrong were minor nuisances. Neville’s dying plants had been the worst of it.

Aside from that, Harry and Malfoy noted small wand malfunctions, spells not quite hitting their marks, odd smells after prolonged casting, and transfigured items briefly changing color. 

If it hadn’t been for his Sentiomancy, Harry might have thought they were dealing with nothing more than a rather boring haunting, carried out by a mischievous (if uninspired) ghost.

But every time someone had trouble with a spell, Harry untethered his magic and gently probed into theirs. And every time, he felt the same sharp coldness that was clustered inside the flowers.

Malfoy hadn’t experienced any of the ill effects first hand and Harry’s spells had only started going wonky in the last day or so, but it seemed to be mostly eighth years that were affected. As far as they could tell, there was no talk among the professors or younger students of anything amiss.

On Tuesday afternoon, Harry had come across Sprout muttering to herself in a corner, peering crossly at her wand, but the professor had hurried away before Harry had the chance to reach out with Sentiomancy.

And so the week had passed rather uneventfully, with small mishaps in class, Malfoy researching feverishly, and Harry trailing his magic over everything in sight, looking for patterns.

By the end of the week, Harry had felt almost relaxed. Perhaps the danger was receding. Perhaps the flowers were winning their war. 

Friday morning had dawned cold and wet, but their visiting professor was relentless. She dragged them all the way to the far side of the Quidditch Pitch, where she had set up a row of ramshackle cottages. 

The week’s workshop had focused on blending various charms into transfiguration spells, to create sturdy and permanent building renovations. For their final assignment, the professor expected them to work in pairs to completely remodel one of dilapidated structures.

Despite the rain, it had been an enjoyable morning. Harry thought his and Malfoy’s cottage was coming out rather well. Endless bickering about color scheme and the merits of stone vs. wood had resulted in a bizarre blend of rustic and sleek. 

It should have all clashed horribly, but somehow it worked, rather like Harry and Draco themselves, Harry couldn’t help but think. And if his heart swooped and fluttered as he imagined living with Malfoy someday in a home like this… well, no one had to know.

Harry was watching Malfoy carve delicate patterns into the stone around their fireplace (his eyes were so intently focused and his nose so adorably wrinkled that Harry was just standing there, frozen, trying to tamp down his big, soppy grin) when it happened.

A scream of agony pierced the air, cut off by the horribly familiar thump of a body hitting the ground.

Every eighth year was instantly alert, wands drawn and pointed as they sprinted toward the last cottage in the row. Harry and Malfoy reached it first, having been closest, but the others were not far behind. They stopped dead, unable to make sense of what they saw.

Padma Patil was lying on the ground, eyes rolled up into her head. 

There was something wrong with her skin. It was dry and cracked, like parched desert sand, and blood was oozing down her hands and face, pooling slowly beneath her.

Luna stood above, hands covering her mouth and paler than Harry had ever seen her. Tears spilled from her eyes. Her wand was on the ground beside her, as if she had dropped it. 

Parvati made a painful sound and swayed on her feet. Hermione rushed forward. She dropped to her knees beside Padma, muttering the diagnostic spells they had learned in their Healing workshop. By that time, the professor was there, gently immobilizing Padma and hurrying her to the hospital wing. Lavender reached out to Parvati, but she pulled away and ran to catch up to her sister.

Luna stared after them, trembling. Malfoy strode over and put an arm around her, speaking softly into her ear. Harry couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Luna shook her head and collapsed against Malfoy’s chest. He held onto her as she cried, rubbing her back soothingly.

Harry approached cautiously and picked up her wand. He would have dropped it if he hadn’t been prepared for the familiar bite. He looked at Malfoy gravely and nodded.

Perhaps the flowers weren’t winning, after all.

The rest of the day had passed in a blur.

Harry wasn’t sure what the worst had been.

Luna sobbing, as she told McGonagall over and over that she hadn’t meant to, that she had only cast a simple water-repelling charm, without seeming to hear McGonagall’s reassurances.

The way most of their classmates subtly shrank back from Luna, Malfoy glaring daggers at them as they did.

The quiet nods when McGonagall had asked if anyone else’s magic was behaving oddly. 

How she’d summoned all their wands and ordered them back to their dorms, before bustling from the room.

Sitting with Ron and Hermione all afternoon, longing for the presence of Draco.

The silence in the common room that evening, no one even lifting a head as they picked at the dinner of sandwiches and pumpkin juice the house elves had delivered. 

Harry reminded himself that Padma was stable and forced his mind back to the present. He shifted to face Malfoy.

“What about your theory?”

“Residual Dark Magic?” Malfoy asked.

“Yeah.” Harry nodded encouragingly. “You said that’s what the evil ice hooks are. And Hogwarts is using the flowers to purge the leftover Dark Magic.”

Malfoy frowned. “Correction, I said it was _possible_ it was residual Dark Magic, meaning that _other_ possibilities also exist that are just as likely.”

“Alright, but it’s somewhere to start, isn’t it? Aren’t there ways to clean up residual Dark Magic?”

Malfoy cocked his head and stared off over Harry’s shoulder, mind obviously whirring. “Yes, though ‘clean up’ is really too simplistic a phrase to apply to –”

Harry grabbed Malfoy’s shoulders and shook him lightly. “Malfoy, focus!” he demanded.

Malfoy’s eyes cleared. “Right, sorry.” 

“Do you know the spells?” Harry asked, releasing him. “Can we try any of it ourselves, or do we need to go to McGonagall?”

Malfoy sighed. He picked up his book again and flipped through the pages absently, chewing on a thumbnail. Then he looked up. “It’s not residual Dark Magic,” he said.

“What?” Harry cried. “How do you know?”

Malfoy’s face hardened. “It’s called research, Potter,” he snapped. “Which you would know if you ever bothered to pick up a book.”

Harry flushed and looked away, feeling slightly ashamed. Malfoy had been sacrificing sleep for a week, struggling to find a solution in the magical theory books they had checked out of the library. He had even written to his mother and requested some volumes from his father’s old Dark Arts collection. Harry should have helped more.

He was about to say as much, when Malfoy reached out to him. 

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me,” Malfoy said quietly, resting his hand against Harry’s shoulder. “You’ve been refining your Sentiomancy, and that tires you enough as it is.” 

Harry leaned into the touch. Malfoy gazed at him, eyes so earnest and soft that Harry thought he might die of it. 

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth quirked up. “You’re useless at research anyway, you insufferable man of action.”

Harry huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I’m not sure that’s actually an insult, Malfoy.”

“Whatever, Potter.” Malfoy smiled.

His hand dropped away, but then he shifted closer and Harry rested against him. They stayed like that for a time, as Malfoy went back to staring at the fire, expression thoughtful. His hand found its way to Harry’s knee, fingers absently caressing the cloth, drawing restless patterns there. The sensation echoed through Harry and he suppressed a shiver.

Finally Malfoy spoke. 

“It’s not residual Dark Magic,” he repeated. “I’ve read everything I could find on the subject, literally hundreds of accounts, and not one of them describes residual Dark Magic in this way. It simply does not behave like this.”

“How _does_ it behave?” Harry asked, when the silence had stretched on for several minutes and Malfoy gave no sign that he meant to continue.

Malfoy’s fingers stilled and he tightened his grip on Harry’s leg. 

“It’s not incredibly consistent,” he admitted, “but everything I read had one detail in common. Residual Dark Magic poisons a _place._ The place itself becomes dangerous, hurting people in ways that resemble the effects of explosions or curses. But no matter how bad it is, your own magic is not affected. You still have control over your magic to respond to whatever trouble the residual Dark Magic causes you.”

“Oh.” Harry breathed out shakily. “But it’s our _spells_ that are being twisted.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy said. “What happened to Padma today _looked_ like the effects of residual Dark Magic. She could have triggered something on the grounds. But Luna cast a spell at her. She watched it hit and go wrong. And then there’s Neville’s plants, and Pansy’s magic shocking her – all these spells not working like they should. As far as I can tell, what’s happening here is unprecedented, at least as far as Dark Magic is concerned. These books are bloody useless.”

Malfoy scowled, and entirely uncharacteristically, tossed the book violently to the floor. Harry cringed when it landed, rattled by Malfoy’s loss of control. 

Malfoy crossed his arms, then rose to his feet imperiously. “Get up,” he practically growled.

Harry scrambled to his feet.

“We are having a seeker game, right now,” Malfoy announced. “Fetch your broom, Potter.”

“But it’s almost midnight,” Harry protested.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Harry looked away from Malfoy’s challenging stare and tugged anxiously at the hem of his jumper, unsure how to respond. 

True, Harry had been ready to crawl out of his skin even before they shut themselves in Malfoy’s room that night, and the hours since had done nothing to calm his nerves.

The fire had made the room uncomfortably hot, and Malfoy’s grief had tangled into Harry’s fear, turning the normally comforting space oppressive. The thought of flying – of the crisp night air and open sky, of laughing and competing with Malfoy – was exhilarating in comparison. Harry suddenly needed that outlet so badly that his chest ached.

But he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that running off to the Quidditch Pitch would be disrespectful to Luna and Padma. How could they indulge themselves after everything that had happened? Shouldn’t they be putting all their energy into investigating?

Malfoy stepped closer to Harry, eyes narrowing as he scrutinized him for a moment. His expression softened.

“I need to clear my head,” Malfoy said quietly. “I can’t sit here anymore, I can’t – think. Please, Potter.” He glanced away, cheeks tinged pink, before meeting Harry’s eyes. “We’re going to solve this,” he promised. “Just not tonight.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice was rough. He coughed. “Yeah, alright.”

Harry ran his fingers through his hair and headed for the door.

“Besides,” Malfoy continued, and Harry knew he was smirking without even having to turn around. “You were starting to look like a caged animal in here, Potter.”

Harry chuckled, marveling at how Malfoy could always see right through him. The sound caught in his throat as Malfoy brushed past, trailing teasing fingers along Harry’s arm.

“Come along, my insufferable man of action.”

Harry went, snatching the word _my_ from the air and holding it close to his heart.

***

The way Harry saw it, his unlikely friendship with Malfoy had been sparked by the flowers, and had grown and blossomed under the stars. The Draco in Harry’s mind was always surrounded by the lushness of fluttering petals, his silver pale skin bathed in moonlight.

Nighttime strolls gave life to that Draco, lighting him up with pearlescent color, drawing the ethereal beauty of Harry’s imaginings into reality. 

And so, quiet evenings by the lake with Malfoy were intoxicating enough. _Flying_ with him was something else entirely.

The flowers from the courtyard had infiltrated the Quidditch Pitch, twining through the stands and infusing the late-October air with their peculiar scent. They shimmered in tiny silver and gold blooms, gleefully mirroring the night sky.

As their brooms ascended, hurtling them upwards to dance among the stars, Harry felt drunk on Draco Malfoy. They were drowning in buds and starlight, and while the two of them had always belonged to the night, Harry couldn’t help but believe that this time, the night belonged to them. 

Draco’s lithe form darted past. He looked over his shoulder at Harry with a grin, then executed a perfect hairpin turn before swooping away in the other direction.

Harry’s broom listed to the side as he lost focus, but he laughed, correcting course and chasing after Malfoy. Even choking on need and want, this felt like rapture.

Harry and Malfoy raced each other across the Pitch – diving and circling, darting in to cut each other off. Even when it became apparent that it was far too dark to actually capture the snitch, their fierce competition raged on. 

Muscles burning, Harry feigned concentration and dove toward the center goal post, hoping Malfoy would follow. As Harry pulled out of the dive, his broom dropped abruptly, leaving him several meters below where he had meant to be. He shook his head, annoyed that he had let himself get so out of practice, before sweeping in a long arc to the opposite end of the Pitch, intending to leave Malfoy far behind.

He had just seen a glimmer that could have been the snitch, when he felt something hard thud into his back. He yelped and instinctively flipped into a Sloth Grip Roll, as if trying to dodge a bludger. His broom shuddered alarmingly, but Harry maneuvered himself upright and got it under control.

He twisted around to glare at Malfoy, who was laughing uproariously.

“What the hell was that?” he barked.

“What, scared of a little bludger action, Potter?” Malfoy taunted. He pulled a round object from his pocket and took a huge bite. 

Harry squinted through the darkness. An apple?

Malfoy smirked and chucked the apple at Harry before hurtling away.

Harry snatched it out of the air. “You’ll pay for that, you git,” he shouted.

“Make me, Potter!”

Harry bared his teeth and growled, then shot after Malfoy.

He swerved when another apple flew past, narrowly missing his head.

“You’re insane!” Harry cried out. “How many apples did you bring?”

Malfoy circled Harry, slowing just enough to waggle his eyebrows before dropping below him and zooming away.

Harry shifted his weight, preparing for a tight turn, but his broom shuddered again and sped up, careening in the opposite direction Harry was steering it.

“Shit,” he whispered, realizing what was happening just as his broom stopped dead. 

Harry had one moment of vertigo as his body absorbed the sudden loss of momentum, and then he and his broom were tumbling toward the ground.

He heard Malfoy shouting. He struggled to move his arms, trying to reach out to his former rival, but the air was rushing past too quickly and there was nothing to grab onto.

Harry slammed into the ground.

And it yielded beneath him. 

He bounced slightly, before skidding to a stop.

Harry’s vision went black for a second, but as he struggled through a few breaths, he realized that the ground felt no harder than a firm mattress. He moved his limbs gingerly, sighing in relief when they obeyed him.

There was a thud next to him, and Draco’s beautiful face appeared. His eyes were wide and full of tears.

“Potter,” he croaked, reaching out to stroke Harry’s cheek.

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, but they snapped open again when he heard Malfoy start to sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he choked out. “The stuff in the flowers, it must have gotten to the spells on the brooms, I should have known – Potter – I’m s-sorry – I can’t – I – all my fault –”

Harry struggled upright. Malfoy was kneeling beside him, gasping out increasingly incoherent apologies.

“Hey,” Harry said. He grabbed Malfoy’s hands. “Malfoy, it’s ok. I’m ok.”

“Y-you’re ok?” Malfoy stammered. He ran his hands up Harry’s arms and down his back, as if checking for injuries.

“Yeah,” Harry reassured him. “I’m fine.” 

He caught Malfoy’s hands again and ran his thumbs soothingly over his wrists. Malfoy shuddered, but his breathing began to calm.

“Potter?” Malfoy whispered. His eyes were pools of molten silver as he stared at Harry.

Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

“I –” Malfoy shook his head.

And then he lunged forward and pressed his lips fiercely to Harry’s.

Harry froze, hardly daring to believe this was happening. 

He closed his eyes and saw a riot of color swarm the darkness. Warmth rushed through him, and he suddenly felt dizzy – he was floating up into the starlight, he was sinking into a bed of blossoms, he was flying and falling and everything in between.

Harry opened his mouth to Draco, reveling in the softness of his lips and the hint of apple tartness left over from the makeshift bludgers. He tightened his grip on Draco’s wrists and melted into the kiss.

Draco suddenly pulled away. He reached a hand up and ran tentative fingers along Harry’s jaw. Harry struggled to open his eyes.

Draco was staring at him, face still wet with tears. 

“Yes?” he asked, voice shaky and uncertain. But his expression said it all. Draco’s eyes were raw and open, pained and hopeful, and it was everything Harry had ever wanted, because Draco Malfoy was reflecting back every bit of desire Harry had ever felt. 

“Yes,” Harry growled, and jutted his head forward to capture Draco’s lips again. 

He reached up to undo Draco’s bun and (fucking _finally_ ) buried his fingers in the loose strands of hair. Harry almost sobbed. It felt like liquid gold.

Draco leaned into him, slanting his mouth to deepen the kiss. His hands trailed up Harry’s chest, sparking lines of fire even through the fabric of his shirt.

Harry gasped. He clutched at Draco’s hips and dragged him closer. Draco came willingly, straddling Harry’s thighs and winding his fingers into the hair at Harry’s nape. He tugged slightly and Harry’s brain went fuzzy. His entire body fizzled, like he was being cocooned in Draco’s magic.

Harry’s hands found the hem of Draco’s shirt and slipped beneath it, hands roving in a heated caress along his spine. His skin was smooth as petals, alluring as velvet.

Harry released Draco’s lips, mouthing messy kisses along his jawline. “Did you cushion the ground for me?” he panted.

“Yeah,” Draco breathed out.

“Wandlessly?”

“Mmm – yes.”

Harry paused, then bit down on Draco’s neck. “That’s so bloody hot,” he said, soothing the bite with his tongue.

Draco moaned shamelessly. “ _You’re_ so bloody hot – _fuck_.”

“Like that?”

“Yes – yes, just like that, _fuck_ Potter.”

Draco tipped his head back and moaned again, hips jerking helplessly upwards. 

Harry whined, then leaned back, dragging Draco with him to the ground. He flipped them over effortlessly, pinning Draco beneath him and chasing his mouth.

Draco kissed back hungrily and hooked his legs around Harry’s thighs. Harry rutted against him in an erratic rhythm – once, twice, three times, and then Draco began to tremble. He arched his back and cried out. 

Harry watched him come, staring as each ripple of pleasure passed across Draco’s face. He had never seen anything more beautiful.

Harry peppered kisses along Draco’s cheekbones until he went still. Then Harry thrust twice more and came, his orgasm shuddering through him so forcefully it almost hurt.

He collapsed on top of Draco and nuzzled into his neck. Draco wrapped his arms around him and sighed contentedly.

Later, Harry and Draco walked across the grounds hand in hand. The moon was low in the sky, a swollen orb just shy of fullness. The breeze rustled the branches above their heads. Harry let his magic spill from his fingers and entwine comfortingly with Draco’s.

When they reached the entrance to the common room, Draco tugged Harry closer to him and rested his head against Harry’s shoulder. Harry pulled him into a crushing hug.

After a few moments, Draco stepped back. He looked up at sky, like he always did when he was about to say something that made him feel vulnerable. But then he surprised Harry by lowering his head and meeting Harry’s eyes.

“I thought I lost you tonight,” he whispered. His voice wavered.

Harry’s heart throbbed painfully. _Never_ , he wanted to say. _You will never lose me, Draco Malfoy._

But Harry Potter knew better than most how easily a promise like that could be broken.

He cupped Draco’s chin in his hand. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Malfoy,” he said. He rubbed a thumb gently across Draco’s cheekbone, softening the teasing words.

And when Harry leaned forward to kiss him, Draco smiled against his lips.


	11. allies, not aurors

“I must have misunderstood you, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said brusquely. She peered down her nose at him, chin tilted sharply and lips pursed. “Are you telling me that you and Mr. Malfoy have been –” She paused. The next word seemed to stick on her tongue. She forced it out, but her expression suggested it left an unpleasant taste - " _investigating_ the source of these magical disturbances?”

Harry darted a look at Draco, who continued to be of no help at all. He was staring determinedly at the floor, face so pale he looked ill. His hands were clasped tightly together in his lap, and Harry thought they might be trembling.

It was seven in the morning. Last night, after the initial rush of euphoria had faded, Harry and Draco agreed that it was time to speak to McGonagall about the flowers. They planned to report the broom failure, as well as share everything they had discovered. And so, despite their _very_ late night, they had made their way to the Headmistress’ office before breakfast.

Harry could tell that Draco was nervous, so he had launched into the story himself. As he spoke, McGonagall’s normally stern expression had grown positively stony, and Harry had faltered in the telling when he realized that he had never seen her mouth in such a thin line. 

“Er, yes?” Harry finally said, more question than answer. “I dunno if I’d say _investigating_ , exactly, but –”

McGonagall cut him off. “You two have suspected a problem for _weeks_ and are only now coming to my office?” she demanded. “Only after one of your classmates nearly _died?_ ”

Harry and Draco exchanged a panicked look before Draco quickly lowered his head again. There had been shame in Draco’s eyes, the grey smudged like faded pencil. An aberration, Harry thought, like the remnants of a mistake.

A sickly heat built in Harry’s temples, spreading until it pressed uncomfortably against the backs of his eyes. He blinked away the unshed tears and forced himself to meet McGonagall’s gaze as he tried to explain. “It was just a – mystery, at first. Nothing dangerous happened, and we hadn’t figured anything out yet, not really –” Harry wavered, throat growing tight.

Because that wasn’t true, was it? They _had_ thought it was dangerous. 

Hadn’t Harry been afraid of it? Hadn’t he gotten into a fight with Draco rather than admit just how afraid he was?

After Draco had forgiven him, and they started to actually work together, Harry had been proud of how they were handling it – they had combined their strengths, questioned their assumptions, pushed each other to consider new possibilities – but sitting here now, with McGonagall radiating disapproval, he could see how reckless they had been. 

Would Padma still have been injured, if they had come to McGonagall sooner?

McGonagall continued lecturing as if Harry hadn’t spoken. “Weeks, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, _weeks_. And in all those weeks, did it never once occur to you that this is a _school?_ Did you never once consider that your professors might be able to help?”

McGonagall’s hands were flat on her desk as she leaned toward them. She opened her mouth, likely to further berate them, but then something shifted behind her eyes. Her fingers stuttered, and she moved them to grip the edge of the desk.

She stood abruptly and muttered, “No, of course you didn’t.” 

Harry frowned. The words were soft, the tone _sympathetic_. The sudden change was jarring.

“Professor, what –” Harry trailed off. 

McGonagall had turned away from them and wandered over to one of the large windows. Her back was straight, but she seemed small and bowed down somehow, as if the years had suddenly crashed down on her all at once.

Draco was watching her uneasily. Harry reached out to squeeze his hand and was relieved to see some of the tension drop from Draco’s shoulders.

After several excruciating minutes of silence, McGonagall returned to her desk and picked up her teacup. The tea had to have gone cold by now, but she calmly drank it down to the dregs before turning her attention back to Harry and Draco.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, the years you spent at Hogwarts were not kind to you, and I realize you did not often find allies among the staff.”

Draco made a faint, distressed noise, and Harry immediately started to protest, but McGonagall just held up a hand. 

“You did not often find allies among the staff, not in the ways you needed, and not when you needed help the most. Upon reflection, it is no surprise that you chose to investigate alone.”

“Headmistress –” Draco attempted, speaking for the first time.

“I was not finished, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said firmly. She huffed out a breath and pinned them both with a heavy stare. “The war is over. I see that you two have overcome your rivalry and made amends. Something that was long overdue, I might add.” She raised an eyebrow.

Draco coughed awkwardly, but when Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, he caught a tiny smile.

“It is now time to overcome the wounds that run deeper,” McGonagall said. She turned to focus on Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, Voldemort is dead and of no further threat to you or your mother. You no longer need to conceal the good you attempt. If you intend to research these flowers and find a solution to the situation we find ourselves in, there is not a single person at Hogwarts that will stand in your way. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco had sucked in a shaky breath when McGonagall mentioned his mother. He was gripping his shirtsleeves tightly enough to tear them and Harry could tell his nails were digging deeply into his wrists, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. He met McGonagall’s eyes and said, “Yes, Headmistress. Thank you.”

Harry felt a rush of affection so strong that he almost fell to his knees in front of Draco. He struggled to compose himself as McGonagall’s attention shifted to him.

“Mr. Potter, Headmaster Dumbledore spent six years all but training you to accept every burden upon your own shoulders –”

Harry flinched, and his eyes darted to Dumbledore’s portrait. When he found the frame empty, he was both disappointed and relieved. He managed to refocus on McGonagall.

Her voice shook - "and the one time you came to me for help, I dismissed you without a second thought.”

Harry couldn’t be certain, but he thought McGonagall’s eyes might be damp. He rushed to reassure her. “Professor, no – that was first year. There was no reason for you to believe me.”

Draco shot Harry a curious look. McGonagall just shook her head.

“I should have taken you seriously, Mr. Potter. I will not make the same mistake again.” She stared him down until Harry finally nodded.

Forty-five minutes and several fresh cups of tea later, Harry and Draco had re-explained, in painstaking detail, everything they knew about the flowers.

McGonagall had been impressed by the breadth of Draco’s research and seemed intrigued by Harry’s survey of the magical residue. She had agreed to let the pair continue working independently, as long as they kept her apprised of their progress, and even promised to share with them the relevant information from her own work with the other professors and the specialists from St. Mungo’s.

When McGonagall began to clear away the tea things, Harry stood up gratefully. He was more than ready to drag Draco to the Great Hall for a late breakfast.

McGonagall looked up and said, “Mr. Potter, there is one further matter I would like to discuss with you.”

Harry reluctantly returned to his chair, silently willing his stomach to stop growling.

McGonagall clucked her tongue apologetically and pushed a biscuit tin toward him. The biscuits were loaded with chocolate and Harry groaned appreciatively. He grabbed a handful and passed the tin over to Draco.

“I was unaware you had excelled at Aperiomancy, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, interrupting the sounds of enthusiastic chewing. “Auror Driffield seemed quite certain that none of the eighth years showed any promise. But if you have progressed to such an advanced level, I am sure I can persuade him to tutor you during your final term, if you are interested?”

Draco snorted. He busied himself with the biscuits when McGonagall glanced at him sharply. Harry wondered if the derision was meant for him or for Driffield.

“Thank you, Professor, but no. I can’t do any Aperiomancy at all,” Harry said. “Malfoy had to explain the theory to me about a dozen times, and I still couldn’t figure it out. I don’t really know what I’m doing with my magic when I track the residue, but it’s not Aperiomancy.”

“Of course it is, Potter.” McGonagall waved a hand dismissively. “You are utilizing your own magic to directly access the echoes of other magic. That is Aperiomancy.”

Harry shook his head, confused. “But I can’t see the magic at all! I – er, feel it.”

McGonagall smiled. “Seeing magic, as you say, is the most basic level of Aperiomancy. What you are doing is much more advanced. Auror Driffield didn’t explain this in class?”

Draco looked affronted. “No, he most decidedly did _not_.”

“It is unusual,” McGonagall mused, “for a wizard to be able to sense magic without first learning to see it, but I suppose it is not unheard of. Advanced Aperiomancy is not considered very useful, so it is not often studied.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, feeling oddly defensive of his Sentiomancy (his _Aperiomancy?)_.

“Magic feels differently to everyone,” McGonagall explained. “Advanced Aperiomancy is so individualized that no one can be taught the meaning of what they sense. They have to discover it for themselves. And once they do, there is no concrete way for them to discuss it with other people, at least not in a way that aids magical collaboration.”

Harry thought about that as he finished his last biscuit.

“That’s not true,” he argued. He felt Draco’s eyes on him and his voice grew stronger. “Professor, it’s the most useful thing I’ve learned this year! It lets you gather information, and the more information you have, the better equipped you are to act.” Harry paused as he warmed to the idea, the possibilities beginning to take shape in his mind. “Imagine if we started practicing it in first year! What if we learned to sense different kinds of magic _as we learned to perform them?_ There’s no telling what we’d be able to do with that!”

McGonagall gave him a long, appraising look. “That’s very interesting, Mr. Potter,” she said. She stood and began ushering them out. “You might consider becoming a Hogwarts teaching fellow next year. An innovative curriculum proposal is part of the application.”

Harry gaped at her, mouth falling open in shock. With a twinkle in her eyes that rivaled Dumbledore, McGonagall nodded at the two of them and summarily shut the door.

***

“Are you alright?” Draco asked quietly.

They were walking along a stone corridor near the Potions classroom. When Harry had bypassed the Great Hall a few minutes earlier, mind still reeling with the implications of McGonagall’s parting words, Draco had followed him without complaint.

“Potter?” he prodded gently, after several minutes had passed with no response from Harry.

“Sorry, what?” Harry said, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Draco’s eyes flashed, and his gaze trailed after Harry’s hand. He blushed faintly and looked away. “I said, are you alright?”

“Do you think McGonagall was serious, about me teaching?” Harry blurted out.

“I do,” Draco answered.

Harry furrowed his brow and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes. “Not an auror,” he muttered, picking up his pace.

Draco hesitated, then sped up as well, matching his strides to Harry’s. In a carefully neutral tone, he asked, “Do you think you might enjoy teaching?”

“I –” Harry shook his head. He abruptly stopped walking and kicked at the stone of the wall halfheartedly. “Distract me,” he mumbled.

“What?” Draco asked faintly.

Harry turned to face him and leaned wearily against the wall. “Distract me,” he asked again. “Please.”

Draco’s forehead wrinkled in confusion – or maybe concern, Harry couldn’t tell which – and he glanced up and down the empty corridor.

“ _Please_ , Malfoy,” Harry whispered.

“A distraction, hmm?” Draco asked, sidling closer to Harry. 

With a mischievous grin, he braced his hands against the wall, boxing Harry in. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against Harry’s in a ghost of a kiss. The gentle warmth of it sent a shock wave through Harry. He jutted his head toward Draco, who pulled away teasingly. 

An embarrassingly desperate whimper escaped Harry’s lips, and he felt Draco’s mouth pressed to his ear.

“Is this the kind of distraction you had in mind, Potter?” Draco asked. He trailed a finger along Harry’s collarbone as his tongue explored the skin beneath his ear. 

Harry gasped. He sagged against the wall, knees already feeling weak. Draco shifted even closer, pinning Harry in place with his hips. He buried his hands in Harry’s hair and then, _finally_ , he crushed their lips together.

Harry had never felt so utterly consumed by a kiss. 

Draco was a plume of golden fire, blazing ever brighter as his flames coursed through Harry’s veins. All the world was melting, and Harry’s worries were insubstantial as ash.

He fisted his hands in Draco’s shirt and hauled him closer, mumbling _yes_ and _this_ and _please_ into Draco’s mouth. He could feel Draco’s smirk against his lips and marveled that he had survived for seven years without tasting it.

Draco pulled out of the kiss and began running his fingers across Harry’s belt buckle.

“Is this alright?” Draco asked, bravado suddenly gone, adorably uncertain.

“Yeah,” Harry croaked. “ _Please_ , Malfoy.”

Draco groaned and stole another filthy kiss before undoing Harry’s belt and slipping his hand inside his trousers. 

Harry was panting, desperately returning Draco’s kisses, but when he felt those clever fingers reach into his pants and caress his cock, his head fell back against the wall. He let out a long moan and struggled to remain upright.

Draco’s touch was light at first, his strokes tentative, but he soon found a rhythm. He worked his hand over Harry’s cock, thumb swiping across the head gently on each upstroke, just the right amount of pressure.

Harry leaned harder into the wall, relishing the rough stone scraping against his back, the contrast making the velvet hand on his cock feel that much sweeter.

He moaned again, but the sound caught in his throat.

Wait… _rough stone? Deserted corridor!_

Harry’s eyes flew open.

“Were you flirting with me?” he gasped. “On our first day back?”

Draco’s rhythm faltered. But then he smirked and continued working his fist over Harry.

“You were!” Harry cried, almost accusingly. 

Draco’s smirk widened and his hand sped up.

“Never been sh-shoved up against the stone – _ngh, oh gods, please_ – th-that’s what you said – _oh, oh! Malfoy, fuck_ –” Harry panted - “deserted corridor –”

Draco released Harry’s cock and leaned in to kiss him lightly on the lips. When Harry whined in frustration and jerked his hips forward, Draco chuckled and his hand returned, pumping at a much slower pace.

“I may have been testing the waters,” he admitted, mouth a beautiful, crooked line.

Harry mumbled something incoherent.

“Honestly, Potter.” Draco shook his head. “You accosted me in a bloody flower garden the night before and all but swooned over my waistcoat. I thought, maybe – but then of course, you missed my implication entirely, you innocent buffoon – and I thought, maybe not.” He shrugged.

“Maybe _yes_ , the first one,” Harry muttered. “Not maybe not. Maybe _yes_.”

“What?” Draco laughed.

“You were right, you in that garden, most beautiful – _ngh_ – beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And that waistcoat. Purple! And your _hair_. Tied back and falling into your face and all blond and un-Malfoy-ish, gods I wanted to touch it.” Harry sucked in a few breaths and continued to babble. “And the way you looked at that flower – _uh, uh, Malfoy! fuck_ – like you wanted to solve it, and it lit you up inside, and I just knew that’s who you were supposed to be – this clever, curious person – _ngh, oh Merlin_ – and I just wanted that, wanted you. And your _hair_.”

Draco’s hand stilled. Harry raised his head to look at him, but Draco wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was blinking rapidly and there were two spots of deep red high on his cheekbones. Harry took a shaky breath, then he leaned forward, took Draco’s head in his hands, and marked each flushed spot with a messy kiss.

Draco looked more flustered than Harry had ever seen him, but he swallowed hard and said hoarsely, “My hair, huh?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed out.

Draco covered Harry’s hands with his own and tilted his chin to kiss him softly. “I like your hands in it,” he admitted in a whisper.

Harry’s cock throbbed. The rush of heightened arousal was so immediate and so overwhelming that Harry would have fallen if weren’t for the wall behind him.

He shoved his hands into Draco’s hair, tugged out the band that held it back, and let the delicious silky strands flow over his fingers. He latched onto Draco’s lips, biting and sucking, chasing Draco’s tongue with his own.

Draco surged forward, slotting a thigh between Harry’s legs and rutting against his hip. His hands were clutching Harry’s jumper. Harry met him thrust for thrust.

Harry was close – his legs were shaking and he could feel his balls drawing up – but suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of coming without feeling Draco’s prick in his hand.

He fumbled with Draco’s belt and breathlessly asked, “ok?”

“Yes, ok, _yes_ ,” Draco panted, and Harry yanked down his trousers and pants.

He continued to thrust against Draco as he palmed his cock.

Draco whined and mumbled, and hearing the posh git come so completely undone pushed Harry right over the edge. He came hard, and was on his knees in an instant, swallowing Draco down.

Draco shouted, and his cock pulsed into Harry’s mouth. Harry sucked gently until Draco went soft, then looked up at him. Draco’s eyes were closed, a blissed out smile on his face. He slid his fingers into Harry’s mop of hair and caressed his head tenderly.

***

Later that night, Harry and Draco were relaxing in bed, listening to the sounds of heavy rain coming through the open window. They had to forgo warming charms, as even wandless magic would be a risk at this point, but Draco’s warm skin and luxurious blankets were more than enough to combat the chill night air.

Draco was sprawled on his back, wearing tight green boxers and a long-sleeved white t-shirt. His head was propped on pillows so he could read, but he had dropped the book ages ago. He seemed to be studying the glass flower, which still rested at the center of the windowsill and appeared to be moving independently of the breeze.

Harry was curled into Draco, one arm wrapped around him and head resting against his chest. Embarrassingly, he realized he had begun to count Draco’s heartbeats.

“Malfoy?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“What were you talking to Hermione about earlier?” Harry asked, fighting back a yawn.

Harry had taken a quick shower after dinner, and when he’d returned to the common room, Draco had been perched on the arm of Hermione’s chair, the two speaking intently.

Not wanting to interrupt, Harry had meandered over to join Ron by the fire.

The mood in the common room was still more subdued than usual, but they had all recovered somewhat from the incident of the day before. They were used to hardship, after all, and McGonagall’s temporary ban on magic was far from the worst thing that had happened to them over their years at Hogwarts.

Classes would continue on a modified (and reduced) schedule for all years, focusing on history and theory for the time being. The eighth years had already been scheduled for an Arithmancy/Divination workshop (and wasn’t that an odd blend? Hermione was furious.) beginning Monday, which conveniently did not require spells. 

What had helped the most though, was McGonagall’s announcement that Padma would make a full recovery. Luna’s water-repelling charm had somehow been twisted to drain all the fluids from Padma’s body. Madame Pomphrey was in the process of rehydrating her, which was a slow, but thankfully simple process.

All of this, combined with the relief of sharing the flower problem with McGonagall, had properly relaxed Harry for the first time in weeks – so much so that he had been able to spend a pleasant hour discussing Quidditch with Ron and Seamus. Blaise Zabini had even offered a few humorous remarks about the new season that were surprisingly insightful.

Despite the lively debate that had ensued, Harry hadn’t been able to stop his eyes from straying across the room, his gaze lingering on the curve of Draco’s throat as he spoke to Hermione. And every time Draco punctuated his words with a careless hand, Harry had remembered the heat of those slender fingers against his hard cock. 

Sated now, drowsy and content with Draco’s legs tangled in his own, Harry had finally become curious about Draco and Hermione’s conversation.

Draco’s fingers stilled where they had been absently caressing Harry’s shoulder.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said with a fond smile.

Harry snuggled a little closer, burrowing his head into the crook of Draco’s neck. “Not yet.”

Draco chuckled and leaned down to kiss Harry’s temple.

“I decided to consult her about the flowers.” He paused for a moment and his hand tightened on Harry’s shoulder. “Is that alright with you? I should have asked first,” he finished tentatively. 

Draco peered down at Harry, brow wrinkled in worry. Harry reached up to brush the hair out of Draco’s eyes, running a thumb soothingly along his forehead.

“Of course it’s alright,” he assured him. “What did she say?”

“She was stuck on the residual Dark Magic idea for a while, as I had been. But then she said something that got me thinking.” Draco trailed off, staring at the glass flower again.

“Yeah?” Harry prompted.

Draco shook his head slightly and refocused on Harry. “She said we might be focusing too much on the idea of Dark Magic. Death Eaters are not the only thing Hogwarts and the Manor have in common.”

“No?” Harry asked.

“No,” said Draco. “They are both ancient wizarding buildings, with copious magic of their own. We knew from our first day that Hogwarts had produced the flowers somehow. So did the Manor.”

“Yeah, ok. I can see that,” Harry said slowly. “But how does that help us?”

Draco sighed. “It might not. But I realized that we know next to nothing about magical architecture. If we could find a reference to this type of spontaneous flower growth, we might be able to learn what causes it –”

“And then maybe that would tell us what the hooks are!” Harry interrupted enthusiastically.

“Exactly,” Draco replied with a smirk. “Granger’s pretty brilliant.”

Harry grinned. “I know.”

By the time the rain stopped, the temperature had plummeted. When Harry started to shiver, Draco built a fire at his lab table. Harry was still rather astonished that he knew how to do something like that without magic. 

Draco crawled back into bed, wrapping his arms around Harry from behind. The crackle of the fire was soothing, and Harry was just drifting off to sleep when he realized there was still one thing bothering him, plaguing the back of his mind like an itch just out of reach.

He rolled over to face Draco.

“Do you think McGonagall was right?” he asked. “That we didn’t think to ask for help because we never learned how?”

“Probably.” Draco attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “We didn’t exactly have the healthiest of childhoods.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed.

“But, also –” Draco trailed off.

“Also - ?”

“I don’t know. It was also – nice, I suppose, to have something that belonged to just us, even if it was Dark.” He gave Harry a pained look. “Is it awful, that I feel that way?”

“Not even a little bit,” Harry whispered, bringing his lips to Draco’s.

The fire burned out long before their kiss did.


	12. a sacrifice no less deserving

The week after their meeting with McGonagall passed in a blur of words and crumbling parchment. Between deciphering spiky ancient handwriting, frequent (not-officially-sanctioned-but-not-forbidden) trips to the restricted section of the library, and coughing their way through countless musty old tomes, Harry and Draco barely had time to eat, let alone engage in other, more pleasurable… activities.

Though they fell into bed every night in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses, exhaustion dragged them into oblivion all too soon.

Still, even sexually frustrated, waking up next to Draco Malfoy was a wondrous thing. 

Warm breath, mussed hair almost white in the rays of the rising sun, pale grey eyes blinking open, knees and elbows digging into uncomfortable places (but still somehow welcome) – these were the things Harry held onto when his anxiety spiked, which happened every time yet another magical architecture book proved unfruitful.

Draco was the calm in the storm, focused and undaunted, taking copious notes and always so certain there would be something useful in the next book, or the one after that. He wasn’t giving up, and so neither would Harry.

By Tuesday, Harry had even begun researching in class, book propped on his knees under the desk. The Arithmancy/Divination workshop proved impossible for him to follow – the professor claimed to be teaching them “predictive analytics,” which utilized common Arithmancy number sequences to… unveil prophetic patterns? Or something like that. Harry wasn’t sure what that meant, but after an entire day of trying to make sense of the professor’s graphs and charts, he recognized that working on the flower problem would be a better use of his time.

Despite the urgency he felt, Harry did allow himself to look up from the books every now and then to watch Draco and Hermione. They had both been looking forward to the Arithmancy workshop, and were less than pleased with the bizarre focus on Divination. 

As the class went on, Draco warmed to the subject. He appeared intrigued, if skeptical, and Harry enjoyed catching him feverishly scribbling notes to himself and biting on the end of his quill.

Hermione was much more belligerent. She sat with arms crossed and a perpetual scowl, often leaning across Harry to whisper to Draco. Her scathing condemnations of the professor amused Harry to no end, and seeing her so comfortable with Draco made Harry positively giddy.

Despite that, Harry was relieved when the workshop concluded on Friday. Hermione had managed not to verbally assault the professor, but it was a near thing, and Harry was tired of feeling on edge about it. 

On Saturday night, Harry and Draco were sitting in the common room with Hermione, reading the last two of their pile of books from the Hogwarts library. Draco finished before Harry. He tossed his book aside unceremoniously and fidgeted with his shirtsleeves until Harry closed his own book with a sigh.

“Nothing,” Harry confirmed when Draco arched an eyebrow at him.

Draco groaned and collapsed back in his armchair. He crossed his arms and stared up into the branches overhead. One of his legs bounced up and down erratically.

Hermione looked up from the papers she was shuffling through. She had offered to read through Draco’s notes, in case something stood out to her that he and Harry had overlooked.

She glanced at Harry worriedly, then placed a hand on Draco’s knee.

“Draco, you have more books coming, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.” He huffed out a breath and swiped the hair away from his eyes.

“McGonagall got in touch with a few research institutes,” Harry added. “A bunch of books and scrolls should be arriving tomorrow.”

“That’s excellent,” said Hermione. “Draco, I can’t see anything in here that you’ve missed, but I still think you’re onto something with this. Don’t give up, ok? If the new books are from research facilities, they’re bound to have more useful information.”

There was a beat of silence, and Hermione awkwardly withdrew her hand. Harry was about to intervene when Draco sat up.

He gave Hermione a half smile and said, “You’re right. Thank you, Granger.”

She touched his shoulder lightly and nodded, before making her way across the room to where Ron was playing chess with… Luna?

Harry and Draco exchanged a look. Without having to discuss it, they immediately moved closer to watch.

Luna appeared to be directing her side of the game with no regard for strategy or even for the most basic rules of chess. Oddly, her pieces moved without complaint or argument. Harry glowered at the board. He’d been playing with those chess pieces for years now, and they had never once been this obedient to him.

Draco frowned when he noticed Harry’s expression, but Harry waved off his concern and sprawled on the floor near Ron. Draco sat beside him.

Luna was narrating the chess game as if it were a bedtime story. Having missed the beginning, Harry was a little confused, but he found himself sympathizing with the plight of Luna’s queen, who had lost her love in a faerie war and was traveling west to find refuge from famine and drought.

Ron looked utterly perplexed, and guilt flashed across his features whenever he captured one of Luna’s pieces. She appeared unbothered, scattering flower petals where they fell. She had lost a knight, a rook, and almost all of her pawns when she turned to Draco.

“Hello, Draco,” she greeted him warmly. “Would you take over the game for me? I’m tired.”

Draco smiled and rested a comforting hand on Luna’s back. He helped her up and settled her in a nearby chair that was heaped with blankets.

But then he looked at Ron and hesitated.

“Alright, Weasley?” he asked.

Ron looked over the board. Luna had left her pieces in an impossible position. Draco would be at an extreme disadvantage if they continued the game. Ron grinned, a tad maliciously, then gestured for Draco to sit.

Draco’s eyes flitted nervously to Harry, but then he lowered himself to the floor across from Ron, his mouth set in determination. 

Perched above them, Luna continued to narrate the game, but Harry lost the thread of her story. He didn’t know much about chess (seven years of games with Ron notwithstanding), but he knew enough about Draco Malfoy to see that this wasn’t going to be the easy win that Ron expected.

Draco was gazing at the board in the exact way he had looked at the flower and the golden dust on the night of the Reclamation Ball. The night Harry had truly seen Draco Malfoy for the first time. The night Harry had started to fall for him.

The intensity of Draco’s thought seemed to coalesce into a living, breathing thing, hovering in the air around him. His fingers twitched at his sides as his eyes darted around the board, identifying and rejecting countless strategies before every move. Harry watched as the question of how to salvage Luna’s game set Draco’s blood on fire, and he marveled at the fierce beauty of this man he had once despised. 

Harry clocked the exact moment when Ron began to sweat. Draco pulled off what must have been a deceptively tricky maneuver – it didn’t look all that impressive to Harry, but Ron stifled a curse. He gave Draco a long, appraising look and sat up straight, abandoning the careless sprawl he had been in since Luna had left the game to Draco. 

Things progressed rapidly after that, pieces darting around the board, striking and falling in patterns too complex for Harry to parse. Eventually, he stopped trying to follow the game and just watched Draco. 

Draco was _alight_ , and he was at the center of Harry’s friends, as if he belonged there, as if he _fit_. Finally claiming a space that he always could have – no, _should_ have – filled. The idea of it wrecked Harry, and as he sat there, chest aching, even knowing that it wasn’t that simple, he couldn’t help but see Draco as a rogue puzzle piece, lost beneath the cushions for years, finally clicking into place to complete the picture of Harry’s life. Harry hadn’t known it was missing, hadn’t seen the empty spot, not until he was finally whole. He melted into the feeling, wrapped his hands around it like it was a mug of tea on a rainy day.

When Luna gasped, Harry jumped. With some difficulty, he turned his attention back to the game. Ron had a bemused expression on his face, studying the board. Then he shook his head slightly and toppled his King.

_Draco had won._

Uncertain how Ron might react, Harry held his breath. Draco caught his eye with a worried little frown, but there was a proud glint to his eyes that reminded Harry of their duel.

And suddenly, it was like no one else was in the room. Harry felt himself go soft around the edges, his magic spilling out and reaching for Draco’s. 

As Harry shuffled toward him, Draco’s face lit up. Harry reached out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear, and Draco leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and smiling.

Ron’s voice broke in then, shattering the moment.

“Oi! Is this a thing then?” He was standing over Harry and Draco, gesturing between them. “You two?”

Harry scrambled to his feet, pulling a panicked looking Draco up after him.

Impulsively, Harry entwined his fingers with Draco’s and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, before he could think better of it. “It is.”

Draco’s grip tightened and Harry felt him suppress a shudder.

“Huh,” Ron said, head tilted. “Alright, then. You should hang around more, Malfoy. I haven’t lost at chess since I was ten. Good game.”

Then he clapped Draco on the shoulder, grinned at Harry, and offered his hand to Hermione. The two said goodnight and wandered off to bed.

Draco swayed slightly on his feet, looking even more stunned than Harry felt. Luna giggled.

All at once, panic flashed through Harry. The past week had been so comfortable, had felt so _right_ , that Harry had assumed that Draco wanted this, that he wanted _Harry_ and everything that came with him. _But what if he didn’t?_

They hadn’t talked about it, not really, and agreeing to a game of chess with Ron wasn’t agreeing to be Ron’s friend. It certainly wasn’t agreeing to announce himself and Harry as a couple. 

_Shit_ , Harry thought, _I fucked up I fucked up I fucked it up._

But Draco hadn’t loosened his grip on Harry’s hand. Harry tugged on it nervously. “Was that ok?” he asked, voice strained. “That I told?”

Draco glanced up at Harry, soft and open and entirely vulnerable. Then he blinked away his daze and scowled. “Not like Weasley left you much choice,” he grumbled. “Always knew he was a busybody. The man’s got no class.”

Harry huffed out a short laugh. Somehow, Draco’s gruffness was reassuring. 

“But yes.” Draco bit his lip and ducked his head for a moment. Then he met Harry’s eyes and said, almost angrily, “I don’t want to lie about you.”

The words echoed in the air between them.

_I don’t want to lie about you._

Harry sucked in a startled breath. He felt like they were back on the Quidditch Pitch, hearts pounding towards each other as they darted and swooped among the stars.

The cool night air was in Harry’s veins, the flowers pulsing and blooming all around him. He cupped Draco’s head in his hands, rested his forehead against Draco’s, and tried not to cry. 

_I love you_ , he thought.

And almost as if she had heard him, Luna began to applaud.

Draco dropped his head to Harry’s shoulder and groaned.

“Go to bed, Lovegood,” he drawled, voice only slightly muffled by Harry’s jumper. “You’re tired, remember?”

Luna giggled again. She stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on Draco’s temple. “Thank you for defending my kingdom,” she whispered, before floating off toward the dormitories.

Harry patted Draco’s back as he muttered crossly into Harry’s shoulder. 

Across the room, Harry could see several confused stares from the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. And Parkinson was glaring at him, looking murderous. Zabini, on the other hand, appeared to be delighted. He was beaming and elbowing Parkinson wildly.

Harry couldn’t bring himself care. _Draco Malfoy didn’t want to lie about him_ , and that was everything. Hostile and oddly excitable Slytherins were a problem for another day.

Harry coaxed Draco out of hiding with a few well-chosen words about what he’d like to do to him when he got him alone. Draco’s eyes darkened and he dragged Harry off to bed. He made a valiant effort to ignore Zabini’s surreptitious thumbs up, but Harry caught his tiny smile all the same.

***

“Potter.” The voice washed over Harry. It seemed to be coming from quite a distance away.

He ignored it.

Something hard jabbed into his ribs. He groaned and tried to roll over, burying his face more deeply into the cushion.

“Potter,” the voice said again, more urgently this time.

Harry mumbled something unintelligible and curled into himself tightly.

He was _tired._

Draco had dragged him out of bed at dawn to start going through the books that had arrived by owl. Harry had grumbled a bit – research facilities should have the decency to owl at a more reasonable time! But Draco had bribed him with buttery toast and a steaming mug of tea, and they had set to reading.

That had been hours ago, hadn’t it? It was hard to gauge in the perpetual twilight of the common room, but Harry felt like a lot of time had passed. He must have fallen asleep. There was a book digging painfully into his neck and he felt groggy, almost drugged. Sleeping during the day was never a good idea for him.

He struggled to lift his head, and was just about to give up, when a hand grasped his collar and yanked him upright.

“Potter!” said the voice, breath warm against his face. His eyes fluttered open.

_Draco._

Harry smiled drowsily, eyes still heavy with sleep. He rested a palm against Draco’s cheek. “Morning, darling,” he whispered, words only slightly slurred.

Draco blinked at him, looking alarmed.

Harry frowned and patted Draco’s cheek. “There, there. Don’t be sad.”

“Potter, what in the world - ?” Draco trailed off. He ran his hands up and down Harry’s arms, shaking him slightly. “Merlin, are you always like this? I’m never letting you nap again!”

“Mmm,” Harry responded, letting his head fall against Draco’s shoulder.

“Potter, please. I need you to wake up,” said Draco. “I found something.”

It took five full seconds for the words to pierce the haze of sleep still blanketing Harry’s mind. When they did, he jerked upright and stared wide eyed at Draco.

Harry dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and shook his head wildly, trying to clear it.

“Right,” he said. “Hang on.”

Harry struggled into the bathroom and plunged his head into a sink of cold water. When he resurfaced, he grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet and scrubbed it hastily over his hair. Then, he hurried back to Draco.

Feeling slightly embarrassed, he sat back down on the sofa and started to mumble apologies. But Draco just knocked his shoulder into Harry’s with a crooked smile and handed him a fresh mug of tea. Harry gulped it down eagerly. Once he had set the empty cup on the table, Draco scooted closer to him and placed a book in his lap.

“Read this,” he said, pointing to a passage in the middle of the page.

_Rarer still, is the phenomenon of Facere Floresco, which will only occur in a magical building that has bonded with its inhabitants over a span of generations. These buildings are often slow to act in times of darkness, but they may eventually choose to reward inner strength and fortitude. In times of need, if a wizard freely offers a selfless act, the buildings may begin to bloom. The wizard’s sacrifice will crystalize into an iridescent flower, which then spreads blossoms throughout the building and its grounds – if a threat is present. These blossoms contain powerful protective magic, though each recorded instance of Facere Floresco (of which, there are only three at the time of this writing) details vastly different results._

“Malfoy,” Harry sputtered, after reading the passage twice through. “This is it! You solved it!”

Harry turned to Draco, expecting to see him glowing with relief and pride, but Draco was frowning off into the distance. His left shirt cuff was undone and he was worrying his thumb along his inner wrist. When he caught Harry looking, he jumped slightly and hurriedly re-fastened the button.

Concerned, Harry extended a hand to him and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Draco shrugged out of Harry’s reach and shifted around to lean back against the arm of the sofa. He was facing Harry, but he felt very far away.

Harry hesitated, then dropped his hand. He turned back to the book, knowing Draco would speak when he was ready.

Harry had only flipped through a few pages when Draco sighed and broke the silence.

“It doesn’t help us,” he said bitterly. “Only three recorded instances? Vastly different results? How do we translate that into a solution? The flowers haven’t accomplished anything on their own.”

“But this confirms what we suspected,” Harry argued. “There is a threat, it’s likely tied to past Death Eater activity, and the flowers are the castle’s response. And your spell!” Harry exclaimed, everything suddenly clicking into place. “It didn’t work on the glass flower, because it’s just a conduit. It transforms the sacrifice, it creates the other flowers, so its essence is in _them!”_

“So the golden dust –” Draco mused.

“Is protective magic,” Harry finished. “That’s what it means. Can you brew something, now that you know that?”

“Maybe,” Draco said, tapping a finger against his left wrist. His eyes went a little unfocused and Harry thought he heard him mutter something about blood, but then he wrenched his head to the side and scowled.

“That’s if this book is even accurate,” he said, “which I highly suspect it is not.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “Why?”

“Use your head, Potter,” Draco groaned. “I’ll admit that the Hogwarts flowers could fit this description. We found the glass flower in the Room of Requirement, where you risked your life, but that certainly wasn’t the greatest act of sacrifice that happened here.” He flinched at that callous assessment and gave Harry a sheepish look. Harry just nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Why that moment?” Draco asked. “Shouldn’t there be more glass flowers then, if this book can be believed?”

“Maybe there are,” Harry offered. “Maybe we just haven’t found them.”

Draco shrugged. “Fine. But what about the Manor?”

“What about it?”

“Potter, why would one of these glass flowers grow at the Manor? There was no selflessness there, no acts of noble sacrifice.” Draco shook his head in irritation. “The book can’t be right.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he asked. “You can’t think of a single good thing that happened at the Manor? Not one?”

“No, Potter, I can’t,” Draco snapped. “I don’t want to talk about this. You have no idea what it was like.”

Draco turned away from Harry. He retreated further into the corner of the sofa, pulling his knees into his chest and burying his head in his arms.

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he should push this, especially here in the common room. Maybe if he could get Draco alone…

But then Harry noticed Luna sitting quietly by the fire, and he had an idea. Other than a few Ravenclaws studying in a far corner, no one else was around. It was still rather early for a Sunday.

Harry nodded to himself. They had enough privacy, and this just might work.

It didn’t seem like Draco would be emerging anytime soon, so Harry strode off to the bedroom without a word. He returned with the pot that held the glass flower. Setting it prominently on the table, he settled in to wait.

It was only a few minutes later when he managed to catch Luna’s eye. She wandered over.

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Draco,” she greeted them.

Harry smiled at her. Draco did not look up.

Seemingly unbothered, Luna perched on the edge of the table and reached out a finger to gently stroke the glass flower.

“This is a beautiful flower, Harry,” said Luna.

“Thank you, Luna,” Harry replied. He risked a glance at Draco, and found that he had gone unnaturally still. 

Really hoping his gamble was about to pay off, Harry said, “Actually, Luna, I was wondering if you've ever seen a flower like this before?”

Luna nodded. “Oh yes, I’ve seen one just like it.”

“Really? Where?”

“In the dungeons at Malfoy Manor.”

Draco’s head snapped up.

“It grew right in the corner of the cell,” Luna continued. “I found it rather comforting. It shimmered during the night.”

“Malfoy and I just learned that these flowers are artifacts of the war,” Harry offered, tone carefully neutral. “They bloom in response to self-sacrifice.”

“That’s lovely.” Luna smiled.

“I thought so too.”

Silent tears were streaming down Draco’s face as he stared at Luna. Harry reached for him, but Luna got there first. Draco buried his head in her stomach and continued to cry. She wrapped her arms around him and gently stroked his hair.

“Thank you for the flower, Draco,” she said softly. “I didn’t know it bloomed because of you.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Draco croaked.

Luna knelt down in front of him and took his hands in hers.

“Don’t say that, Draco,” she soothed.

“It shouldn’t,” he insisted. The words were coming in breathless gasps. “It wasn’t enough. I shouldn’t have just fed you. I could have broken you out.”

Luna waited until he had calmed somewhat and then looked him right in the eye. “No, Draco, you couldn’t have.”

Something weighty passed between them. Finally, Draco took a deep breath and nodded.

“We’re alright now,” Luna reminded him. “Everything is alright.”

By the time Luna left them, more of their classmates were beginning to spill into the common room. Harry led Draco back to the bedroom and persuaded him into bed.

It had been an exhausting morning, but Harry worried Draco might still be too rattled to sleep. He pulled Draco into his chest, wrapped his arms around him, and began to soothingly rub his back. Shaking slightly, Draco tucked his head into Harry’s neck and clutched tightly to his t-shirt. Neither of them spoke, and eventually, Draco’s breathing grew soft and even. 

Harry let himself relax into the mattress, loosening his muscles and watching Draco sleep.

Everything around them was peaceful. The steady rain outside seemed to cocoon them in their own cozy little bubble, blanketing the grounds in its soothing hiss. Back on the windowsill, the glass flower swayed slowly from side to side, every so often catching the light from one of Draco’s colorful potions and flaring up with a dazzling radiance. Harry felt an odd sort of kinship with it, now that he knew where it had come from. He sighed and tightened his hold on Draco.

For one moment, he let himself feel what it would have been like if he hadn’t managed to save Draco that night, if he hadn’t flown back for him through the fiery inferno of the Room of Requirement. 

The sense of loss was immediate, so deep and profound and painful that Harry shrank away from it, lest he be rubbed raw. The idea of not knowing Draco was unthinkable, and yet, if Draco had died that night, Harry never would have known how much he had lost.

Harry’s brain ticked backward, spiraling through all the ways Draco had suffered and all the ways he could have died during the war. The fire, the battle, the Manor… facing Dumbledore on the tower… the bathroom where Harry had cut him open – 

Harry closed his eyes against the burn of tears, forcing himself to breathe deeply and calmly through his nose. He tried to blank his mind, to focus on Draco’s body pressed against him, warm and alive. He wanted nothing more than to flee from the thoughts that plagued him. 

But then the trees of the Forbidden Forest began to flash against the inside of his eyelids, refusing to retreat. 

Harry swallowed hard and opened his eyes. He tenderly stroked a hand through Draco’s hair and waited.

When Draco blinked awake an hour or so later, the clouds had cleared and the sun was high in the sky.

“Hey,” Harry said softly. “You ok?”

Draco burrowed his head into Harry’s chest with a deep inhale. Then he sat up and kissed Harry softly. He got out of bed and began to re-tie his hair while he checked on his cauldrons. After a moment, he started slightly and his eyes darted toward the windowsill. Seeing that Harry had replaced the glass flower, he immediately relaxed and sank down against his lab table.

“Do you think we should read the rest of the books?” he asked abruptly.

“There’s actually something I want to do first,” Harry said. He hesitated, then asked, “Will you come to the Forbidden Forest with me?”

Draco gave him a guarded, almost suspicious look. The back of Harry’s neck grew hot, but he held Draco’s gaze and did not offer an explanation.

Finally, Draco nodded. “Alright.”

The forest looked different during the day, but that didn’t make a difference to Harry. The path to the clearing was forever branded in his memory. 

He walked without hesitation, following the ghost of his former self deep into the trees.

A light breeze tousled Draco’s hair and made him tighten the scarf around his throat. Harry smiled and took Draco’s hand, imagining the birdsong wrapping around them, binding them together and soothing the frayed edges of his soul. 

It was almost pleasant, taking this walk with Draco, and for a moment, their destination faded from Harry’s mind.

But then they reached the clearing. 

And right at the center, in the exact spot where Harry had once fallen, grew a glass flower.

Harry dropped to his knees and reverently stroked the petals. Not much light made it through the trees, but the bloom somehow still shone. It looked like a crystal teardrop, infusing the woods around them with its own miraculous light.

Harry heard Draco’s quick inhalation of shock, and was grateful when he didn’t speak. A few raindrops dripped from the trees and hit Harry’s neck, snaking their way in a frigid path down his collar. Harry shivered and bowed his head, straining to feel the presence of his mother and father, of Sirius and Remus. He let his magic spill from his fingers, questing over the ground, but there was nothing for Sentiomancy to find, not even an echo.

Harry lifted his head and found Draco quietly studying him. He was sitting against a tree a few yards away, giving Harry space. Harry crawled across the grass and settled beside him.

They were quiet for a time, just as they had been at the lake, all those nights when they were still getting used to liking each other.

Finally, Harry broke the silence. Still staring at the flower, he said, “This is where I died.”

Draco tensed beside him, but managed to keep his voice steady. “I thought that was a lie. Mother said she lied to Voldemort to save you.”

“Yeah, she did,” Harry agreed. “But before that Voldemort killed me. Didn’t sever the bond between us though, so I was able to come back. I had a choice.”

Draco shifted closer, pressing his thigh against Harry’s. “A choice?” he asked.

“Come back and fight or stay dead.”

“You came back,” Draco said, almost a question.

“Yeah.”

Draco leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry briefly rested his head against Draco’s and then turned to him. He grasped Draco’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “The book’s accurate, Malfoy, and your sacrifice was no less deserving than mine.”

A look of pain flashed across Draco’s face, and Harry thought he might argue. But then, without breaking their eye contact, he reached out and moved Harry’s hand from his shoulder to his chest, pressing their palms into his heart.

The sounds of the forest seemed to retreat, rustling leaves and birdsong and the snapping of twigs receding like the tide. Harry and Draco were on those sands, everything between them laid bare. Because Draco’s heart beat beneath Harry’s fingers, and nothing in this world could stop the tsunami from crashing over them.

Harry understood what Draco was offering, and so, he closed his eyes and let go of his final secret. 

Harry gave Draco Malfoy the words he had never spoken, the words he had tried so hard to hide. “I know coming back from death was the right thing to do. But when the war ended, I wished I hadn’t.” 

Harry let his hand drop away from Draco’s chest and sagged against the tree. After a moment, he cocked his head toward Draco and offered him a wry smile.

Draco’s fingers stuttered where they had been tugging at the buttons of his shirtsleeves. Then he shook his head slightly and took Harry’s hand. “Do you still feel that way?”

“Sometimes,” Harry admitted, looking out across the clearing. “Not as often as I used to. Not when I remind myself I don’t have to be an auror.” He turned his head then and met Draco’s gaze. “Not when I’m with you.”

Draco let out a soft breath, eyes crinkling in affection and concern.

“I was thinking, while you were asleep,” Harry continued, “about all the ways you could have died in the war, about how I _did_ die, and – and I – I don’t know, Malfoy. It just seems so bloody unlikely – that we survived it, that we made our way back here, that after everything, we – that we found our way to each other.” He huffed out an incredulous breath. “And if we hadn’t – if I never got to know you –” he shook his head with a grimace - “and I was lying there in bed, holding you in my arms, practically shaking, thinking of how easily I could have lost you, terrified of things that never even happened.”

“Potter –” Draco said gently. But Harry wasn’t finished.

“I was so afraid to come back here. Afraid I would just – lie down and wait to die. Afraid I wouldn’t be stronger than my grief. But there’s so much outside this clearing, isn’t there?” Harry’s breath caught, halfway to a laugh. “You,” he said, cupping Draco’s chin briefly before letting his hand drop. “And Sentiomancy. And Luna Lovegood making a complete mockery of chess. And flying. And flowers. And I – Malfoy, the way you look at your potions – I want to find something to look at like that, if I can, and I want to do that, just that – even if it doesn’t save the world – and I need that to be enough.” His voice was almost pleading now. “Can’t that be enough?”

Draco pinned Harry with a long, serious look. “You don’t owe this world a single thing, Harry Potter,” he said slowly, lending weight to every word. “Whatever you choose to do will be more than enough.”

Harry felt tears rise in his throat. “Malfoy –” he said thickly.

“What is it? What do you need? Tell me.”

“Kiss me,” Harry said.

And Draco did.

It was a cautious, gentle thing at first, just lips and breath and eyelashes, fingers barely grazing skin. The heat built slowly, kindling from the embers, the steady warmth of fire-bright coal. Languorous caresses melting into rhythm and friction and stammered pleas.

They filled the clearing with whispers and slick skin and love, and by the time they left it behind, meandering hand in hand through the forest, Harry no longer thought of it as the place where he had died, but rather as the place where he had come back to life.


	13. see me now

“I can feel you staring at me, you know,” Draco drawled from the bed.

Harry startled, knocking his head against the doorframe where he’d been standing for a few minutes now, admiring Draco. 

“And I heard you come in. You’re not as slick as you’d like to believe, Potter.”

Draco was lying on his side, reading a book he had propped against the wall, his body a long, elegant line. He was fully dressed, but the fit of his pale green trousers left little to the imagination and Harry’s mouth had gone dry as he thought of peeling that skin-tight fabric slowly off Draco.

“Shut the door, Potter,” said Draco, suggestive tone belying the casual way he turned a page.

Harry did not hesitate to obey. He slammed it behind him and practically leapt onto the bed, narrowly avoiding tripping over the school bag Draco had discarded in the middle of the floor.

Not turning away from his book, Draco ignored Harry. He made an absorbed kind of sound, as if something in the story had really caught his attention, and flipped to the next page.

Harry’s heart pounded, blood flaring to life at the implicit challenge. If Draco wanted to play a little, Harry was more than happy to oblige.

He slid closer and pressed himself fully against Draco’s back, one hand trailing teasingly along his hip bone. Draco’s breath stuttered, then quickly evened out. Harry mouthed at the side of Draco’s neck, leaving a path of wet, messy kisses as he worked his way up.

“Hello, darling,” he whispered, breath warm against Draco’s ear.

Draco shivered. Then he hummed in greeting and pointedly turned another page.

Tightening his hand on Draco’s hip, Harry rubbed his half-hard cock against Draco’s thigh. Wanting to hear Draco come undone before he indulged himself, Harry stifled a moan.

Then he stilled, and after a moment, Draco pushed back more firmly against him. It was the tiniest of motions, so slight it might as well have been nonexistent, but it spurred Harry on. He began thrusting against Draco in earnest now, setting a slow, steady rhythm, hand moving ever closer to the bulge in Draco’s trousers.

Draco gasped and rolled onto his back, shifting away from Harry. He rested his book on his stomach and struggled to catch his breath.

Without looking at Harry, he said, “I’m trying to _read_ , Potter.” 

Harry sighed as Draco turned another bloody page.

The book was novel-sized, nothing like what they’d been reading lately. Curious, Harry sat up and craned his neck for a glimpse of the cover. When he saw it, he threw back his head and laughed.

Draco made a _hmph_ sound and tightened his grip on the book.

“Malfoy,” asked Harry, “are you reading a gay romance book? About curse-breakers?”

The cover displayed two scantily clad wizards standing in front of a pyramid. They were staring deeply into each other’s eyes, one shooting a spell over the other’s shoulder. His wand was aimed at a disturbing purple cloud that had fangs protruding from far too many mouths.

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s an _adventure_ novel, Potter. They’re very popular.”

“Is that so?” Harry purred, trying out a seductive smirk.

It had no discernible effect on Draco. 

Harry began to wonder if Draco really did want to be left alone with his book. Surely Harry couldn’t be _that_ bad at smirking?

“Yes,” Draco answered breezily, turning another. fucking. page. “It’s _incredibly_ interesting, so it would take quite a lot to –” Draco paused and stared hard at Harry, arching a single haughty eyebrow - " _distract_ me.” 

Draco’s eyes flicked back to the book and Harry grinned wickedly. That was all he needed to hear.

He sat back on his haunches, drinking in the sight of Draco’s body, content to let the tension build between them. As the minutes ticked by, Draco quickly lost his composure, and Harry delighted in the opportunity to make him squirm. 

There was a furious blush in Draco’s cheeks as he flipped through pages more quickly than he could possibly be reading. Every so often, his eyes darted momentarily to Harry and his fingers trembled against the spine of the book. His legs tensed and relaxed repeatedly as he waited, betraying just how often he had to force himself to calm down. He may as well have been begging, it was that easy for Harry to read his impatience.

Finally, Harry shuffled closer and casually rested a hand on Draco’s thigh. The muscle jumped under his touch, and Harry could tell Draco was holding his breath. He moved his hand slowly up the inside of Draco’s leg, just barely brushing his balls before continuing down the opposite thigh.

Leaning forward, Harry let his mouth hover tantalizingly over Draco’s clothed erection. He brought his hand back to his balls and began massaging them gently through his trousers. Draco hissed and his hips bucked. Harry let the tip of Draco’s cock breach his lips, but did not close them. Instead, he blew out a teasing breath. Draco whimpered, involuntarily spreading his thighs. Harry removed his mouth.

Draco was panting now, but his eyes were still stubbornly on his book. Before he could catch his breath, Harry crawled between his legs, lying flat against the bed and resting his chin on Draco’s hip bone.

He started to toy with Draco’s trousers, running a finger along the button and up and down the seam.

“Have you read that book before?” Harry asked innocently, untucking Draco’s shirt and nuzzling at the pale strip of skin that was revealed.

“Y-yes,” Draco choked out. “Old favorite,” he managed, taking shaky breaths.

Harry licked Draco’s stomach, following the line of his waistband. “Did you need a break from research?”

Draco swallowed hard and nodded. “Couldn’t th-think anymore. Needed to – _ngh_ – breathe. Like when we f-flew.”

“Mmhmm,” Harry agreed, beginning to unbutton Draco’s shirt, tracing his tongue slowly upward as he uncovered that deliciously pale skin. Keeping up the pretense of conversation was becoming difficult, but Harry was unwilling to give in so soon. “What about classwork? I know the workshop was cancelled, but McGonagall wants our proposals by the end of the week.”

“Uhhhh –” Draco had finally dropped the book. His eyes were closed and he was tossing his head from side to side.

“How about it, Malfoy?” Harry asked, voice only slightly strained. His fingers flicked open the button at Draco’s collar as he mouthed wet kisses along Draco’s waist. “Know what you’re going to study next term?”

“P-potions,” Draco cried. “Potter, _Potter, p-please._ ”

The stammered plea immediately shattered Harry’s tenuous grip on control. He moaned shamelessly and scrambled upright, straddling Draco’s hips and bringing their lips together in a filthy kiss. He plunged his tongue over and over into Draco’s mouth as they rutted against each other.

Draco’s shirt had fallen open and Harry splayed his hands across Draco’s chest, desperate to tease and lick and suck every last inch of the skin he had dreamed about but never seen before tonight.

He broke the kiss and lowered his head to Draco’s nipple. Draco collapsed back against the pillows, trembling with need.

But then Harry went still.

His fingers had found the edge of a deep groove that cut across Draco’s chest and wrapped around the left side of his ribs.

The other scars were faint, but there were at least a dozen of them. Stark silver lines spiderwebbing erratically across his sternum and ribs.

_Sectumsempra_ , Harry’s mind hissed.

His hands shook. Slowly, Harry removed them from Draco’s body and hugged them into himself. He started to shiver.

“Merlin bloody fuck, Potter,” Draco panted, breathless and writhing beneath him. “Don’t _stop_. You’re more interesting than the book, I _promise._ ”

Harry remained frozen.

Draco opened his eyes and saw Harry’s stricken expression. He reached for him in concern, following Harry’s gaze to his own bare chest. 

“Oh,” Draco breathed out. 

His hands tugged at his shirt, as if he meant to button it closed and hide the scars from sight. But then he sighed and left it open. He struggled to sit up fully. Harry shuffled awkwardly off Draco’s lap and knelt beside him.

“I can’t believe I did that to you,” Harry choked out. “Malfoy, I am so sor–”

“Don’t,” Draco interrupted. He grabbed Harry’s hands. “Don’t you dare apologize.” 

Harry sucked in a painful breath. “But, Malfoy, I – I –”

“No, I won’t hear it,” Draco said fiercely, squeezing Harry’s wrists. “You did what you had to do. If you hadn’t, I would have hit you with _Crucio,_ and it would have destroyed me.”

“Destroyed? I don’t –” Harry trailed off, shaking his head.

“Better you hurt me in self-defense than I hurt you unprovoked,” Draco whispered, voice tight. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I had hurt you.”

“But _I_ hurt _you!”_ Harry cried. 

“Because you had to,” Draco insisted. He stroked a hand across Harry’s brow.

Harry shuddered and bowed his head.

“I just wish I had understood,” Harry sobbed brokenly, struggling to gulp back the tears. “You needed help. I wish I had seen that. I wish I had seen _you_.”

Draco turned his face away, eyes squeezing shut in a tight expression of pain. But it only lasted a second. He sucked in one quick breath, and then everything terrible seemed to flow out of him. He looked up at Harry, and his eyes were shining with nothing but desire and love. He took Harry’s hand and pressed his palm against his chest, just like he had in the Forbidden Forest.

Harry breathed in shakily, Draco’s steady heartbeat calming him.

“You see me now,” said Draco, and Harry felt the words like they were being stitched into his skin.

“I see you now,” Harry echoed, making the words a promise.

Harry slid his hand up Draco’s chest to his shoulder. Bringing his other hand to Draco’s back, Harry gently laid him down against the pillows.

And then Harry leaned over Draco and brought his lips to the marred skin, fluttering tender kisses across the length of each and every scar.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, even though Draco had told him not to. “I’m sorry I used a spell I didn’t understand. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Draco slipped a hand into Harry’s hair. “Shhh, Potter,” he breathed out. “It’s alright.” 

He tugged lightly on the black strands, encouraging Harry up his body. He took Harry’s head in both his hands and pulled him toward his lips.

The kiss was soft at first, a slow exploration, tongues sliding against each other in a subtle give and take. They stayed that way for a long time, pausing only to rub their noses together or pepper light kisses along the other’s cheek, always spiraling back together, succumbing again and again to each other’s heat. 

They were both leaking with need when they finally helped each other wrestle down their trousers, refusing to halt the kiss even to undress. Harry’s hands dipped beneath the waistband of Draco’s boxers.

“Ok?” He breathed the question into Draco’s mouth.

Draco sucked on Harry’s lower lip and wiggled his hips in silent assent, somehow entwining his fingers with Harry’s as they both slipped out of their pants.

And then, Draco’s naked cock was against Harry’s, firm and hot and damp with pre-come.

The kissed stuttered as they both shuddered and groaned. Harry pushed himself halfway up and stared down at their cocks. It was the most arousing thing he had ever seen.

Harry shucked off his t-shirt, then reached out to slide Draco’s shirt off his shoulders.

Draco tensed. “No, leave it. Please.”

Harry immediately stilled, but he was confused by Draco’s hesitance.

Draco was laid bare before him, the only thing the shirt covered was – _oh._

_His arms._

Harry carefully let go of Draco’s shirt.

He ached to tell Draco that it was ok, that the Dark Mark was just another scar, that it didn’t define him, that there was no part of Draco that repulsed Harry, no part of him that Harry could ever hate. 

But he stopped himself. He wouldn’t pressure Draco to bare his Mark tonight. Would never pressure Draco to reveal anything before he was ready.

That was Draco’s decision, and Draco’s alone.

So Harry just buried his hands in Draco’s hair and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

Draco made a desperate noise that was almost a sob and pulled Harry’s mouth back to his. His hips bucked once, cock rubbing against Harry’s. The friction was sudden and overwhelming, nothing like Harry had ever felt before. He chased the sensation, grinding himself against Draco.

Draco groaned and reached blindly toward his bedside table. There was a crash as he accidentally knocked over a stack of books. He grunted in frustration, but managed to open the drawer. His hand scrabbled among the contents and emerged with a bottle of lube.

Harry whined when he saw it. He reached out a palm and Draco poured the slippery liquid into it. It must have been enchanted, because it grew warm the second it touched Harry’s skin. He moaned and reached between them, slicking both their cocks.

Draco’s thighs fell open, and he hooked an ankle around the back of Harry’s leg, encouraging him to move. Harry braced his arms on either side of Draco’s head, staring into his heated eyes, not wanting to miss a moment of this.

As they moved together, cocks rubbing against each other in an agonizingly slow slide, Harry felt his magic building inside him, flush against his skin, begging to be released. 

Draco whispered something then, a word that might have been _Harry_ , and Harry could no longer hold back. He loosened, magic pouring from him in undulating waves. He felt it flowing into Draco, felt Draco’s magic flowing into him. Draco gasped and threw back his head, as if he could sense it too.

Draco’s magic, normally a pleasant fizzling buzz, sparked against Harry’s, like firecrackers in his veins, setting his blood alight. Harry’s toes curled up, the sudden resonance only heightening the sensations already pulsing through his groin.

Desperately, Harry bit down on Draco’s shoulder, trying to stave off his impending collapse, wanting to give Draco every possible second of pleasure. Draco hissed, rocking his hips faster against Harry’s. Harry watched as unadulterated need bloomed in Draco’s eyes, a deep grey pool rippling with longing and lust and heat.

Draco’s face broke open as he came, and Harry followed him over the edge without warning. He fell into Draco as his body exploded, his orgasm hitting with such power that it felt like everything he had ever been, everything he ever would be, was rushing out of him and into Draco. 

Harry inhaled a shuddering breath and brought his mouth back to Draco’s, kissing him tenderly, each peck sweet and chaste. Draco closed his eyes and ran his hands along Harry’s spine in a languid caress.

The room grew darker as they rested against each other, slowly catching their breaths. Draco’s magic bobbed inside Harry, filling him up with lightness and air, until he was surprised not to float away like a balloon.

Harry groaned helplessly, suddenly realizing they couldn’t perform a quick cleaning charm before drifting off to sleep. Unwilling as he was to let those vicious little hooks anywhere near his bits, the idea of forsaking the warm cocoon of blankets for the chill tiles of the bathroom was nearly as intolerable.

When Draco nudged him, Harry muttered a repetitive string of _can’t, won’t, no_ as he burrowed further into the pillow and rolled to face the wall. Draco chuckled and got out of bed. Harry immediately felt cold, the bed unpleasant and far too empty without Draco. He struggled to sit up.

The sound of running water came from the lab table, and then Draco returned, holding a damp cloth. He was still nude, save for the unbuttoned shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, but his soft cock and beautiful pink bollocks were clean.

Draco carded a hand through Harry’s wild mop of hair, easing him back against the pillows. He brought the cloth to Harry’s groin, washing him with gentle strokes. 

Harry sighed in pleasure. The cloth was warm, and the heat seemed to sink into him, relaxing him into a fuzzy daze as he melted even further into the mattress. He spread his legs to allow Draco better access.

Draco sat on the bed and continued his ministrations, smoothing the cloth over Harry’s hips and stomach. His other hand massaged Harry’s scalp.

“I’ve been reconsidering the idea of residual Dark Magic,” Draco said. “Do you think we gave up on it too easily?”

The words seemed to bounce off Harry’s mind, refusing to penetrate. “Hmm?” he breathed, more concerned with Draco’s incredible hands than with whatever he was trying to say.

Draco gave the cloth one last swipe across Harry’s chest, then discarded it on the bedside table. He stayed upright, but braced his back against the headboard, fingers still tangled in the hair at Harry’s nape. “I’ve been re-reading the description of _Facere Floresco_ ,” he continued, “and it seems particularly conducive to combating the remnants of Dark Magic.”

Harry wriggled a little in displeasure. “Malfoy –”

“I simply cannot fathom anything else being the ‘threat’ the passage refers to. Everything appears to lead us right back to residual Dark Magic,” he mused, staring off in the direction of his windowsill plants. 

“Malfoy!” Harry snapped.

Draco refocused on Harry, a puzzled expression etched across his face. Harry pointedly looked down at his own nakedness and then back to Draco. 

“What?” Draco asked, apparently genuinely confused.

Harry cocked his head. “You’re kind of crap at pillow talk.”

Draco frowned. “What does that even mean, Potter? Why is ninety percent of what you say nonsense?”

Harry blinked slowly. “I mean, is this really what you want to talk about right now?” Harry ran a hand along Draco’s waist and raised his eyebrows. “After, _you know_ –”

Draco flushed a profoundly deep red. 

Harry tried out his second smirk of the night, with significant success. Draco averted his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

Struggling to regain his composure, Draco sat up a little straighter and took a deep breath. He looked down his nose at Harry and arranged his features into a smirk of his own.

“Sorry, Potter,” he drawled, laying the smugness on thick. “Tender declarations of feeling aren’t really my style.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He just placed his palm flat over Draco’s heart, mirroring the gesture Draco had made twice now, challenging him to deny the declaration it implied.

Draco gasped and looked away.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Cheeks still a bright scarlet, he shifted his weight toward Harry and met his eyes. “You’re very handsome, Potter.”

Harry grinned crookedly. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Draco answered nonchalantly.

Harry pressed his hand more firmly against Draco’s chest, rubbing his thumb across his sternum. “And?” he prompted.

“ _And_ ,” Draco continued, the haughtiness becoming less evident with every word. “I was unaware that it was possible for anything, ever, to feel as good as you just made me feel.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Draco hesitated. But then he placed his hand over Harry’s and his expression grew serious. “And –” He took a steadying breath. “I’ve never felt this close to another person. You make me feel – safe.” Draco swallowed noticeably and his eyes went soft around the edges. He finished in an intimate whisper. “You make me feel _everything_.”

A brilliant smile unfurled across Harry’s face. “You make me feel everything too.”

They had only been kissing for a few minutes when Draco pulled away.

“Ok,” he said. “So residual Dark Magic –”

“Malfoy!” Harry groaned. He flopped back on the pillows dramatically, aiming for “exasperated” but in reality having trouble containing his giggles.

Draco threw up his hands. “I have theories, Potter! I can’t help it if your cock clears my mind better than the sexy curse-breakers!”

Harry lost the battle and rolled around on the bed, cackling hysterically. “I can’t even look at you,” he forced out between bouts of laughter.

Draco pretended to pout and made to get off the bed.

Harry seized his wrist before he could get far. “Ok, ok,” he gasped, fighting against his laughter. “You win!” Harry allowed himself one more deep chuckle, then pushed upright. He crossed his legs and sat attentively in front of Draco. “I’m listening. Residual Dark Magic. Go.”

Draco smiled toothily. He lunged forward and kissed Harry smack on the lips, then launched in immediately. “We’re clearly not dealing with naturally occurring residue here. Everything that has happened contradicts what is recorded in Dark Magic books. But what if the Death Eaters _manipulated the residue somehow?”_ Catching Harry’s thoughtful look, Draco brightened and his words spilled out with even more enthusiasm. “They could have strengthened it, or even designed spells that purposely leaked dangerous residue! If they tampered with it, that would explain why it does not function in the ways we expect.”

“That’s – horrifying,” said Harry. “But it actually makes a lot of sense.”

Draco nodded and climbed out of bed. He continued the conversation while making his way to the wardrobe. “I’m going to start reading up on how to cleanse a place of residual Dark Magic. We may be able to alter some of the spells.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed. “That’s a good plan.”

Draco smiled at Harry over his shoulder while rummaging around their drawers. He tossed a t-shirt and boxers toward the bed for Harry, then ducked behind the wardrobe to change into the long-sleeved white t-shirt he always slept in.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked, as Draco was crawling back into bed.

He settled on his back and pulled Harry into him. “Yes?”

“What causes magical residue? Does the spell have to hit, or is just casting it enough?”

Draco’s brow wrinkled. “Why?”

“Just thinking.” Harry laid his head against Draco, not ready to share the idea that was niggling at the back of his mind.

“Casting,” Draco answered, fingers tracing restless patterns across Harry’s shoulder. “The residue comes from the spell itself. Not its effect. Honestly, Potter.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “That’s the ‘First Foundational Property of Aperiomancy.’ Did you learn nothing from Auror Driffield?” He clapped a hand to his chest in exaggerated shock.

“Not a bloody thing,” Harry chortled. Then his mouth quirked mischievously. “Oh,” he said in an offhand manner, “I did pick up how to perform the most advanced kind of Aperiomancy, though – I mean, apparently.” He shot Draco a wicked grin and shrugged.

“Apparently.” Draco rolled his eyes and huffed in disgust. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Harry laughed and snuggled closer to Draco. “C’mere,” he whispered.

Draco grumbled unconvincingly and brought his lips to Harry’s, slotting their tongues together.

Outside, an owl hooted and the wind rustled against their window. The glass flower swayed and danced in the light breeze. It opened its petals, bathing the room in the subtle scents of fresh soil and citrus.

When Harry and Draco finally slept, their dreams were colorful and warm.


	14. an anomalous reaction

Harry perched on Draco’s lab table, poking and prodding at a rack of corked vials.

It wasn’t as easy as sensing another person’s magic or the aftereffects of a spell, but if Harry concentrated just a little past the point of comfort, he could do it.

He pushed his magic into the potions, and the residue was there – skimming the surface, shaky tendrils extending beneath. They were all different, but they all felt a little like Draco, something of his own essence merging with his creations.

Harry wondered if all potions carried discernible echoes of their brewers, or if he was just hopelessly attuned to Draco Malfoy. A daft smile unfurled across his face at the thought.

Each potion was neatly labeled in Draco’s precise handwriting. As Harry delved into them one by one, he checked his impressions against the label, adding to his ever-expanding mental chart of what different magics felt like. 

Draco was a tad – miffed, that Harry refused to write any of it down, especially as Harry had proposed exploring Sentiomancy as his winter term interdisciplinary project. But McGonagall didn’t seem bothered, and to Harry, transcribing it would have felt wrong. Much of what he did with Sentiomancy was instinctual, and he wanted to build up those instincts, not degrade them by relying on a reference sheet.

Harry leaned back against the wall and one of his elbows jostled the rack. He steadied it easily, but not before he caught Draco’s tiny, anxious gasp. To his credit, Draco didn’t say anything, just went back to chopping herbs as if his hand hadn’t stuttered dangerously on the knife.

Harry silently vowed to be more careful. Draco had been nothing but encouraging when Harry asked to test his Sentiomancy on the potions. But this was the work of months for Draco – a portfolio painstakingly assembled, the first step toward being accepted into a Potions apprenticeship. It was an extraordinary sign of trust that he was allowing Harry free reign here – even if his shoulders hadn’t relaxed away from his ears since Harry had started.

They worked for another half hour or so, though Harry grew more and more distracted as he neared the end of the potions stock. His heart throbbed every time he heard Draco murmur quietly to himself, and soon he was simply watching Draco’s hands, those slender fingers so certain as he brewed.

Watching Draco work was a particular weakness of Harry’s. There was something about his quiet absorption that stirred Harry’s blood. It was almost as if Harry could see Draco’s potential writhing beneath his skin, as everything he was – and everything he could be – trembled on the verge of discovery. His manic thirst for knowledge distilled into a single, crystal-sharp point. A stillness that was as charged as any motion. To Harry, it felt like watching miracles unfold.

It had been almost two weeks since they discovered that the golden dust signified protective magic, and Draco had barely taken a break since. He came to bed late and woke up early. In between, he’d kiss Harry breathless, rousing him from sleep to whisper about base liquids or an anomalous reaction. Even drowsy and painfully hard, Harry liked hearing Draco talk about his potions, so he did his best to concentrate. And he’d managed to pick up quite a bit from Draco’s monologues while waiting to come. He understood that Draco was performing elaborate tests on the properties of the flowers, working toward a series of reactions that would give him enough information to brew something that would shield them from the hooks.

Just then, Draco dipped a pinkie into a cauldron that was peach-colored and glistening. He brought the damp fingertip to his mouth and lightly sucked. Harry almost knocked over the rack of vials. He swallowed hard, desperate to moisten his suddenly dry throat. He had a vague idea that tasting potions wasn’t entirely safe, but he brushed it aside. Draco knew what he was doing.

When Draco swiped a hand through his disheveled, sweaty hair, biting his lip and frowning in concentration, Harry nearly groaned aloud. The git had no right to make potions research look so unbearably sexy – even if he _had_ gotten Harry off _mid-rant_ about herb concentrations and liquid ratios the night before.

Blushing slightly and adjusting his trousers, Harry forced his attention back to the final vial. He broke through the mild resistance and suddenly felt enveloped by a warm weight, like when Draco would fall asleep almost on top of him. The residue seemed to bunch cozily between his fingers, reminding him of caressing a soft jumper. Harry smiled a bit dreamily before releasing his hold and letting the sensation flow out of him. He squinted at the label and saw that the potion was a Calming Draught. 

Harry put the vial away and pulled his knees to his chest, tucking his chin into his arms. Sentiomancy seemed to rely heavily on personal associations, and he was beginning to suspect those things might change over time. Or would a Calming Draught have always felt like sleeping beneath someone he loved, even before he had ever experienced that with Draco? 

Draco’s voice cut into his musings. “Alright, Potter?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “I just finished.” He tucked the rack of Draco’s potions back into the bubble of stasis magic beneath the table.

Draco hummed in thanks and began to clean his equipment by hand, washing rods and small bowls in the table’s built-in sink. Harry grinned (it was hours earlier than Draco normally finished) and reached for a cloth to help dry.

“Where have you been wandering off to all week?” Draco asked, passing Harry a tiny cauldron. He smiled ruefully. “I know I’ve been busy, but I didn’t mean to ignore you. Have you been testing your Sentiomancy in other parts of the castle?”

Harry’s insides squirmed. “Not exactly,” he muttered.

Draco raised an eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise press him. He scrubbed at a ladle that looked unpleasantly sticky and simply waited for Harry to be ready to continue.

Harry sighed. The truth was, he’d been glad Draco was distracted. With the workshops cancelled until they could safely perform magic again, the eighth years were meant to be researching their interdisciplinary projects. Harry knew Draco had assumed he was practicing Sentiomancy, and he hadn’t corrected him. But every day he didn’t, it had felt more like a lie.

“I was testing a theory,” he hedged, not meeting Draco’s eyes. 

“Oh?” Draco’s attention was still on the washing up, but his voice was warm with interest.

It made Harry feel even worse.

“Your theory, actually.” Harry paused, pretending to be absorbed in stacking Draco’s clean crucibles on a shelf. It didn’t waste nearly as much time as he’d hoped. He sucked in a breath, then finished in a falsely casual tone. “About residual Dark Magic.”

Draco’s mouth fell open and his hands stilled under the water. “How?” he managed, after a beat of stunned silence.

“Er –” Harry scuffed his foot against the floor and nearly dropped the pestle he was drying.

“Wait.” Draco’s eyes flashed. “You asked me if casting was enough to create residue.” The bowl he had been holding clattered into the sink, and he braced his hands against the edge of the table. “Potter, please tell me you have not been casting Dark Magic spells.”

Harry bit his lip and didn’t answer. Draco hadn’t turned off the faucet and water continued to gush noisily into the sink.

“Potter –” Draco started. 

“It was in the Forbidden Forest!” Harry blurted. He couldn’t bear the tinge of fear in Draco’s voice. “I made sure I couldn’t hit anyone!”

“But you don’t have a wand!” Draco insisted. His voice cracked. He sounded like he was trying to catch hope in his fingers, insubstantial as smoke.

Harry reached out to him, but dropped his hand quickly when Draco stepped back. Harry could feel the blood pounding in his temples, a steady drumbeat of shame. 

“Er – I do, actually,” he said. “McGonagall gave it back to me.”

“What? When?”

Harry slumped onto one of the stools and tried to explain. “I asked for it during my advisory meeting. I promised it was only to cast things I could practice Sentiomancy on, and that I wouldn’t cast anything on myself or other people.”

“You _lied_ to the Headmistress?” Draco hissed.

“No!” Harry shouted, alarmed. “No, not – not really.” He floundered, tugging at his hair anxiously. “I _was_ using Sentiomancy, on – on the Dark Magic spells.”

Draco’s hands scrabbled at his elbows. He was folding into himself, voice tight with shock. “You lied to _me._ ”

“I – I didn’t mean to,” Harry pleaded, just managing to stop himself from falling to his knees.

“Potter, it’s Thursday,” Draco cried. “Your meeting with McGonagall was on _Monday_. And you’ve been gone every morning.”

“Er – yeah.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

Draco’s nostrils flared and his hands clenched into fists. “You’ve gone to the Forbidden Forest to practice Dark Magic _four_ times?” he yelled.

Harry nodded miserably.

“ _Four_ times?” Draco was shaking now, body trembling in barely suppressed anger. “And you didn’t bother to tell me?”

The sink overflowed, spilling water onto the floor, but neither of them moved to shut the tap. 

“I – I didn’t want to upset you,” Harry tried. The water was seeping into his socks.

Draco laughed incredulously. It was an ugly sound, humorless. “ _Upset_ me?” he croaked. “What about _you?_ Anything could have happened to you! You could have _died!”_

“Malfoy, I’m fine!” Harry shouted, remorse cracking into frustration. “Do you even remember who I am? I’ve survived way worse than this!”

“I don’t care!” Draco screamed. He stalked closer, and Harry might have thought Draco was going to hit him, if it weren’t for the tears welling in his eyes. He did not lower his voice, and it rang through the room, fierce as a lighting flash, broken as thunder. “Having survived worse is not a blanket excuse for reckless behavior! You’re not _invincible_ , Potter!”

“I’m fine!” Harry insisted stubbornly.

Draco let out a shaky sob before partially collapsing. He bent over himself, burying his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees.

Harry reached out and tentatively touched his shoulder. He flinched when Draco jerked away.

Harry was the one trembling now. “Don’t you - er, don’t you want to know what I found out?” he asked. 

It was a cheap ploy. He hadn’t found out anything, not really. Certainly not enough to justify lying to Draco. Not that anything justified that. They were supposed to be partners, and Harry had shut him out.

“No, Potter, I don’t.” The words were muffled, Draco’s face still covered by his hands. He rubbed his fingers harshly across his eyes and slowly straightened. Harry took a step back under the force of his gaze. “I really, really don’t.”

Draco tugged down his cuffs, then swept toward the door. He snatched his cloak from the hook and paused on the threshold, his back to Harry, fingers clenched tightly on the jamb.

“Stay out of the fucking Forest,” he growled.

And then he was gone.

Harry breathed in shakily, then forced himself to exhale. He slowly reached out and turned off the faucet. Waving a hand, he wandlessly banished the puddle of water, not even caring that all spell work was a risk these days.

The second it was done, Harry blanched. This was exactly the kind of thing Draco was begging him not to do. He shook his head, then fished the last few bowls out of the sink. In a daze, he dried the rest of the equipment and put it away.

Draco’s _really, really don’t_ echoed in Harry’s ears. The words frightened him. He had never seen Draco not want to know something before, and it made the whole world feel a little bit wrong, like Harry had lost his glasses and everything was blurred and out of place.

He moved toward the bed and stumbled over something. It was the jumper Draco had worn to sleep last night, stubbornly refusing to close the window even when it had started to lightly snow. Harry buried his nose in it and sniffed pathetically.

He sighed. Pulling Draco’s jumper over his t-shirt, he sat on the floor by the bed. He curled himself into a tight ball and waited for Draco to come back.

***

Snow clung to Harry’s jumper, making him shiver as he trudged across the Quidditch Pitch. The sun was going down and the air was freezing against his exposed hands and neck. He hadn’t planned well when he had left the dorm.

Harry really had meant to wait for Draco to come back. He was afraid that if he left, they’d miss each other somehow, and Draco would return to a cold and empty room. Besides, he knew Draco well enough by now to respect his need for space. Draco processed by retreating, pulling back into his own mind until he could sort everything out. Harry could always tell when Draco slipped away to confront a mental puzzle or emotional struggle, and normally, Draco was content to do so with Harry by his side. 

But _Harry_ was the problem this time. Harry had been the one to hurt him, so it made sense that Draco needed physical distance as well as mental.

Harry’s resolve held for almost an hour before he broke. 

He’d been lying on the floor, letting his magic spill from him erratically. It had settled in an unhappy blob around his shoulders, leaving only guilt in its wake. Eventually though, sluggish tendrils of it began to meander across the room toward the plants and potions, as if Harry’s magic itself was searching for some trace of Draco.

Harry had groaned, re-tethered his magic, and dug around the mess at the bottom of the wardrobe until he found his trainers. He shoved them on impatiently and left to find Draco, space be damned. Draco could have all the space he wanted, as long as Harry could sit across the room.

As he walked across the grounds and through the castle, Harry grew colder and colder. He knew it was nonsense, but he couldn’t quite shake the thought that it wasn’t the wintery weather, but Draco’s absence, that was freezing his blood.

Because Draco was nowhere to be found. Not in the common room, or by the lake. Not in the library or the courtyard or the Astronomy tower or the Potions wing. Not in the greenhouses or the kitchens. Harry even wandered down to the dungeons and had a very awkward conversation with a second year Slytherin girl.

Finally, he had given up. But he couldn’t face the thought of going back to the empty bedroom.

So he had wandered forlornly down to the Quidditch Pitch, not quite understanding the impulse. It’s not like Draco would be flying, not after the near disaster of their seeker game.

Toes numb now, Harry kicked at the snow, trying to coax some warmth back into his feet. He was about to turn back when his eyes caught on the row of little cottages they had never finished renovating after Padma was injured.

Without really thinking about it, Harry adjusted his path, his sight set on the cottage he and Draco had worked on together.

Harry found himself thinking of the previous Sunday. Halloween. 

The anniversary of his parents’ deaths had felt different somehow, this first year after the war. The grief was inexplicably sharper, as if the struggle against Voldemort had been insulating Harry against the true extent of the loss. Without the looming threat of battle, without a villain to defy, Harry suddenly didn’t know where to channel his pain.

After the Halloween feast, Harry had fled to the Astronomy tower, Draco close behind. They sat together, surrounded by stars, and Harry had asked Draco to tell him about his childhood, about his mother. 

It had felt like a vigil, listening to those old stories, losing himself in Draco’s memories as his own heart mourned the connection he and his parents had lost too soon.

Harry hadn’t told Draco why he had asked, but he was pretty sure Draco understood.

It was the closest Harry had ever felt to Draco, and he remembered it now with a physical ache. He wrapped the stories around him as if they could chase away the cold, but he was still shuddering violently by the time he reached the cottage door.

His heart clenched at the sight of the shutters, piercingly blue against the warm grey wood they had agreed on for the outside. Draco had insisted on the bright azure, arguing that they’d always have a bit of their own clear sky on cloudy days. 

Longing swallowed Harry, and his palms ached as he again imagined building a home with Draco. Lost in the thought, he pushed open the door.

Flickering light and the warmth of a fire enveloped him, so unexpected and so welcome that he actually moaned as he crossed the threshold. He looked up, over the half wall separating the entrance from the living area, and there, wrapped in a crimson blanket on the plush grey sofa, was Draco.

“Malfoy!” Harry exclaimed.

Draco looked entirely unruffled by Harry’s sudden appearance. He straightened his back and let the blanket fall away from his shoulders. There was a cup of tea and a fat book resting on the mahogany table beside him. 

The neutral cream shade Draco had chosen for the walls seemed to gleam with subtle gold tones in the light from the fire. Harry had complained that the color was too bland and only agreed to it after Draco let him paint the kitchen a bold red, but now it looked incredibly inviting, suffusing the room with comfort and warmth.

“Potter.” Draco nodded at Harry, sounding very much like he had at the Reclamation Ball. Polite. Wary.

Harry stood in the stone entryway, snow rapidly melting into a puddle around his feet. Draco’s distant tone felt like rough glass against his skin, but he was so relieved to have finally found him that he welcomed the cut.

“You – you came to our cottage?” stammered Harry, feeling rather overwhelmed.

“Obviously.” Draco gestured to himself and rolled his eyes. “Took you long enough to find me though.”

“I didn’t find you!” Harry said in a rush. He paused and rubbed his neck awkwardly. “I mean - er, obviously, I did. But I didn’t think you’d be here. I looked everywhere else. I think I came here to give up, actually.” He cringed and looked away. “Sorry.”

“I was joking, Potter.” Draco sighed. “I didn’t come here expecting you to find me.”

“Oh.” Harry shuffled his feet on the stone tiles, one hand scrabbling behind him to find the doorknob. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Draco shifted subtly on the sofa, angling his body away from Harry.

Harry didn’t know whether to be encouraged or discouraged by that. He floundered for a moment, then shut the door. “Why _did_ you come here?”

Draco took a sip of tea before answering, and when he finally spoke his words had an air of indifference, as if he were commenting on the weather. “I suppose I wanted to be with you without being with you, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, shivering even more now that his body was starting to warm. “That’s why I came too, sort of. I wanted to – to feel you, at least, if I couldn’t find you.”

Draco’s calm mask faltered at that. He blinked rapidly and stared off into the corner of the room, where a large grandfather clock dominated the space. Harry hadn’t much liked it when Draco had first transfigured it, but he had to admit that the polished wood looked rather regal. It contrasted beautifully with the rough stone façade Harry had created for the wall with the fireplace.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop shaking. “Are you sure you don’t want me to leave?”

“Yes.” There was a tense pause, but then Draco stood up and cautiously approached Harry.

“Right,” Harry said, teeth chattering. “Good.”

Draco reached Harry and frowned down at him. Impulsively, Harry craned his neck and kissed the angry crease between Draco’s eyebrows.

Draco sighed. He pried Harry’s hands away from his chest and rubbed them in his own to warm them.

“Potter, you’re drenched,” Draco pointed out. “Why have you been traipsing around in a snowstorm wearing nothing but my jumper?”

Harry’s heart fluttered. He had forgotten he was wearing Draco’s jumper.

“I had to find you,” he whispered.

Draco arched an eyebrow. “And you couldn’t do that wearing a cloak?”

Harry blushed. “I was in a hurry?”

Draco’s expression softened and a small chuckle escaped. “Alright, let’s get these wet clothes off you.” 

He tugged the jumper over Harry’s head and went to lay it out near the fire while Harry kicked off his trainers and peeled off his damp jeans and socks.

“T-shirt too,” Draco said, when Harry joined him by the fire. “Your skin is icy.”

Harry shucked it off obediently, then settled beside Draco on the thick ivory and gold rug. He stretched his hands toward the flames and groaned, only now realizing how numb they had been. He sighed gratefully as the warmth seeped into him and the ache started to retreat from his bones.

After a few minutes, when Harry’s skin was no longer damp, Draco wrestled off his own jumper and threw it at Harry. He quickly made sure his shirtsleeves were buttoned, then fetched the blanket he’d been using and wrapped it snugly around Harry’s legs.

“Alright, Potter?” he asked softly, once Harry had pulled on the offered jumper.

“Yeah,” Harry said. His fingers were still a bit tingly, but he had finally stopped shaking. He tucked his hands into his armpits and shuffled closer to the fire. “Thanks.”

The wood popped and crackled in the grate as Draco added another log. His lips were pursed, but when he sat back down he pressed his thigh against Harry’s.

“Malfoy?” Harry said, voice tight.

“Yes?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Draco looked down at his hands. “I may have overreacted. I should have let you explain.” He hesitated, then admitted, “You scared me.”

“I know.”

“And I’m still angry.”

Harry nodded and tentatively placed a hand on Draco’s knee. “I know.”

Draco didn’t move away, but he still wouldn’t look at Harry. He twisted his fingers anxiously into the rug and stared at the fire.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered. “I know I didn’t ask, I know I’ve been distracted, but you could have said something – I would have listened, I would have made time for you. Don’t – don’t you trust me?” His bottom lip quivered, but he quickly bit down on it.

“Oh, Malfoy.” Harry’s breath hitched. He turned to face Draco fully. “Of course I trust you.”

Draco’s eyes darted to the side and he hunched into himself, neatly dodging the hand Harry had reached out to him. 

Harry’s heart seemed to contract in his chest, clenching painfully around the memory of their fight in the courtyard, when Harry had thrown Draco’s words about trust back in his face. Harry took a shaky breath and reached out again, clasping Draco’s hands in his own.

When Draco finally looked up at him, Harry said, “It wasn’t that, I promise.”

“What was it then?” Draco asked.

Harry rubbed his thumbs across Draco’s knuckles. “I just – I didn’t want to put you through that.”

Draco wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Look, Malfoy, I know you don’t want to talk about the Manor –” Draco’s shoulders tensed and he started to pull away. Harry tightened his grip and hurriedly continued - “and I’m not asking you to. But I – I know terrible things happened to you there. I know you were trapped and forced to do things you didn’t want to do, and I know you were around Dark Magic all the time. I didn’t want to do that to you again. I didn’t want you anywhere near those spells.”

“Oh,” Draco breathed out, almost startled. He stared at Harry, body entirely still.

“And maybe this was selfish,” Harry went on, “but I didn’t want you to see _me_ cast Dark Magic.” Harry’s fingers shook and he released Draco’s hands. Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered, “I didn’t think I could bear to do it if you were watching.”

He felt Draco’s touch against his cheek and opened his eyes again. “But you’re right, Malfoy. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have talked to you about it and let you make your own decision.”

Draco dropped his hand and frowned vaguely at Harry’s shoulder. “You were trying to protect me,” he said, half a question.

“Yeah.”

“Because you knew I wouldn’t let you do it alone, no matter how I felt about it,” Draco said, still more question than statement, even though he was nodding.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

Draco’s sigh could almost have been mistaken for relief, if not for the touch of sadness at its edges. “You may have been right. I may not have – handled it well.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry insisted. “I still should have been honest with you. We could have talked about it, made a better plan. And I could have had Ron and Hermione come with me, if we thought you couldn’t.”

“Or the Headmistress,” Draco added, with a pointed look at Harry. “We are supposed to be involving her in this, you know.”

“Right.” Harry cringed.

Draco leaned into Harry and rested his head against his shoulder. Harry shifted closer and wrapped an arm around him.

“You have to stop taking risks like this, Potter,” Draco said quietly. “You could have been hurt, and no one would have been there to help. No one would have known how to find you.”

Harry tucked his head against Draco’s. “I know.”

“Your life matters,” Draco said, and he placed his palm over Harry’s heart. 

Harry covered Draco’s hand with his own. “I really am sorry, Malfoy. I won’t do anything like that again, I promise.”

Draco buried his head in Harry’s jumper.

Harry hugged him even tighter and leaned down to whisper earnestly in his ear. “And I do trust you. So much. I trust you with everything.”

“I know that. I do,” Draco said into Harry’s chest. “I just – it’s hard, to believe it sometimes.” He took a shuddering breath, then lifted his head to meet Harry’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I know you wouldn’t intentionally hurt me. I know you l–” Draco cut himself off, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. His eyes flicked toward the fire and he started to shuffle toward it, mumbling about more wood.

But Harry had heard the words Draco did not say.

Harry grasped Draco’s elbow and pulled him back. He cupped Draco’s chin and kissed him softly on the lips.

“I love you,” Harry said.

Draco’s breath left him in a quiet whoosh. Harry smiled and kissed him again. Everything seemed to go silent and still, nothing between them but fluttering eyelashes and shared breaths.

Draco caught Harry’s hands in his. “There are things I haven’t told you,” he said.

“I know.” Harry kissed his cheek and then his temple. “Things from your past,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Draco said, entwining his fingers with Harry’s. “I will tell you – I will. It’s just –”

“It’s ok,” Harry interrupted, feathering light kisses along his brow. “When you’re ready. Not before.”

Draco closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He breathed in deeply, before letting out an amazed little laugh. It was the sound of finally letting go.

“Potter?” he said.

“Yeah?”

Draco’s eyes were shining when he opened them. “I love you too.”

It was slow at first, as it so often was between them. They undressed each other reverently, fire-warmed skin revealed inch by inch. Harry was careful to only unbutton, not remove, Draco’s shirt, and Draco let out a shaky sob when he understood that Harry had remembered. 

They moved together, cocooned and safe under the velvet touch of the blanket, knees and thighs cushioned by the plush threads of the rug.

It was nothing they hadn’t done before. The same familiar patterns of kisses and wandering tongues and the slow, sweet slide of their cocks. But in the cottage they’d built together, and with love fresh on their lips, it felt entirely new.

Eventually, the fire burned out, and the encroaching chill forced them from where they had been lying wrapped in each other, skin sticky and sated.

There were no towels in the unfinished cottage, so they sacrificed Harry’s t-shirt, cleaning themselves off as best they could before beginning to dress. 

“Potter?” said Draco.

His shirt was already buttoned and he was smoothing down his jumper over top, looking remarkably composed for someone who wasn’t yet wearing trousers. Harry was still in just pants, peering mournfully down at his damp jeans. He grimaced and pulled them on with a shudder.

“Yeah?”

Draco buckled his belt and sat down on the sofa to lace his shoes. He looked up at Harry almost shyly and asked, “Tell me what you found out?”

Harry chuckled as he pulled on Draco’s other jumper. Thankfully, the fire had dried it more thoroughly than the jeans. “I thought you really _really_ didn’t want to know,” he teased.

A corner of Draco’s mouth quirked up. “I lied.”

Harry burst out laughing and leaned against the mantle to steady himself.

“It almost killed me,” Draco admitted.

“You?” Harry exclaimed. “It almost killed _me!_ Draco Malfoy not wanting to know something? It was like you were a stranger!”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you suffered terribly, Potter.” Draco rolled his eyes. But then he leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on his knees. “Please tell me,” he begged, the shift in tone abrupt enough to be comical. He was almost quivering in anticipation, like a delicate bud first opening its petals to the sun.

Guilt snaked its way across Harry, wrapping him in spiky tendrils. “I maybe shouldn’t have built it up so much.”

“Merlin, Potter! Just tell me!”

“Right, sorry.” Harry crossed the room and sat on the edge of the coffee table, knees knocking against Draco’s. He gazed up at the painting above the sofa, lavender fields in the sunrise, the plants swaying gently in a slight wind. “It’s just – I didn’t really find out anything. I cast every Dark spell I could think of – er, except the Killing Curse, that is.” Harry’s breath stuttered, but then Draco placed a hand on his knee and he felt able to continue. “Anyway, no hooks. Well, no new ones at least. There’s always some hanging around people, so there were a few already on me.”

Draco gave him a puzzled look. “And they didn’t interfere with your spells?”

Harry shook his head. “No, but that makes sense. The hooks twist spells Dark, yeah? But the spells I cast were already Dark.”

“Fuck,” Draco said emphatically, eyes glazing over.

Harry gave him a moment and then nudged him gently. “What is it? Did you think of something?”

“What?” With some difficulty, Draco refocused on Harry. He ran a hand over his face. “No – no, sorry. It’s just – fascinating.”

Draco’s cheeks were flushed and his fingers tapped erratically against Harry’s knee. Harry grinned soppily at him, surprised he wasn’t muttering under his breath as he worked his way through the mental labyrinth that had captured him.

Draco came to a few moments later, eyes narrowing with just the slightest hint of suspicion when he caught Harry’s gaze. “What?”

Harry smiled at him and kissed his hand. “Nothing.”

Draco frowned, but then he hooked his ankle around Harry’s and leaned forward. “Alright, go on. What did happen?”

“It wasn’t – fun.” Harry sighed, keeping hold of Draco’s hand. “I cast the spells, over and over, in a kind of rotation. I thought I might need to saturate the area. That’s why I kept going back, in case it needed to build up.”

Draco gave Harry a tiny, impressed smirk, before quickly scowling, as if he couldn’t stand to even _imply_ praise for Harry’s recklessness. “That was actually really clever, Potter,” he said grudgingly. 

Harry shrugged. “Anyway, I tracked the residue, and there was tons of it. It was awful, Malfoy.” He tightened his grip on Draco and slotted their knees together. “Sentiomancy is really physical. It – it hurt, like I was being stabbed and torn and choked. Burned. Every spell was different, but they all felt wrong, like the darkness was slipping beneath my skin, like it could rearrange everything I was.”

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco whispered, eyes crumpling with pain. He smoothed the hair away from Harry’s forehead and cupped his cheek. “I should have been there for you. I should have noticed that something was wrong.”

“No, Malfoy, it’s ok,” Harry reassured him. “It was bad, but it’s over really quick. As soon as I pull my magic back into myself, I can’t feel the residue anymore. I’ve gotten a lot better at it.”

Draco nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. He continued gently stroking Harry’s cheekbone.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned into the caress before he continued. “But none of it felt anything like what’s in the flowers, so I guess it didn’t do any good.”

“Perhaps the flowers affect the residue somehow?” Draco mused. He straightened and resumed his finger tapping as his eyes darted around the room. “What if we brought some of them to the forest, to the place where you cast the spells?”

“Yeah, that –” but then Harry trailed off. Draco’s idea had snagged against something in the back of his mind.

Draco had said that the Death Eaters might have done something to affect the residue. It had seemed like a solid idea at first, until Harry had spent more time researching advanced Aperiomancy (or Sentiomancy, as he still affectionately called it). The thing was, there just weren’t a lot of ways to tamper with magical residue. It existed independently of the spells it was born from. To consciously create a new type of residue, the Death Eaters would have had to invent a specific spell for it, or – 

“Wait, Malfoy – shit.”

Draco’s eyes cut back to Harry’s. Harry wound his fingers anxiously into his wild mop of hair and just stared back at Draco, wide eyed.

Draco prodded him with a knee. “What is it?”

“I have an idea,” Harry said slowly, “but you’re not going to like it.”

Draco scoffed and dug his knee into him again. “Come on, Potter, out with it already!”

“You said the Death Eaters might have done something to change the residue somehow –” Harry said, Draco nodding along - “but what if they did something to their wands?”

Draco gasped. “Potter! That might be it!” His grip tightened on Harry’s knee. “That would explain why there’s an excess of this one specific kind of residue, even though the Death Eaters used a myriad of Dark spells! But how can we – oh.” The blood drained from his face, making the shadows beneath his eyes stand out starkly.

Harry nodded grimly. “We need a Death Eater wand.”

There was a beat of silence, and Harry longed for the comforting crackle of the fire. Draco collapsed back against the sofa, huffing out a long breath that disturbed the hair hanging in his eyes. Harry levered himself off the coffee table and moved to sit beside him. Draco took his hand, but did not look at him.

“I have to go to Azkaban,” Draco said. “I have to go see my father.”


	15. the specter of azkaban

By the time Ron found him late Saturday afternoon, Harry’s backside was almost entirely numb. 

He had made an effort to clear the snow from the spot where he was huddling by the lake, and had even brought a waterproof cloak to sit on, but the ground was still hard and frozen, and it hadn’t taken long for the chill to penetrate his many layers.

As Ron plopped down next to him, Harry tossed a rock at the lake’s nearest ice floe and swore under his breath when he missed. (again.) Ron scooped a small stone from the pile Harry had gathered and pegged the ice floe dead center on his first shot. Harry scowled at him.

Ron grinned cheekily. “There’s a reason we never let you play chaser, mate.” He laughed and scored another direct hit.

Harry threw up his hands in exasperation, but only grumbled a little. He hugged his knees to his chest and watched as Ron worked steadily through the rock pile, aiming at and hitting targets increasingly far out. The tiny clinks the stones made against the ice were strangely satisfying, and Harry felt the tension in his neck begin to loosen.

“Had an owl from George,” said Ron. “Want to try out his latest?” He held out a clear packet full of shiny hard candies. They were faceted like jewels.

“What’s it do?” Harry asked suspiciously.

Ron shrugged, a glint of mischief in his eyes. He shook the packet temptingly in front of Harry’s face, before tearing it open and pouring the sweets into his hand. Plucking up a royal blue one, he held it to his lips and offered Harry the others in a silent dare.

“Fine,” Harry groaned, already regretting it. He selected a candy of pale gold and popped it into his mouth before he could change his mind. Ron swallowed his in the same moment.

Harry jumped as a crackling sensation coursed through him. He stared down at his hands in amazement as whorls of midnight blue ink seemed to pool under his skin. The color spread, and bright flashes of lightning sparked across Harry’s palms, as if a thunderstorm were raging beneath the surface. It didn’t hurt, but he could feel the buzz of the lightning and the rumbles of the thunder over his whole body.

Beside him, Ron had gone rigid. Harry gasped when he looked up at him. Ron’s skin was a pale blue color, like the sky on a mild day, and it looked like he had been tattooed. Hyper-realistic tree branches were etched across his cheekbones, tossing violently as if in a heavy wind. A few errant leaves dropped from the branches, floating down Ron’s neck and disappearing below his collar. 

But Harry’s gaze kept returning to Ron’s eyes, which were overflowing with shining golden tears. The shimmery orbs floated toward Harry, airy and insubstantial as sunlight.

He reached out to catch one on the tip of his finger, but just before he could touch it, it flashed brightly and disappeared.

“Harry,” Ron croaked. “Your eyes –”

Suddenly, there came an unpleasant sucking sensation, as if the images trapped beneath their skin were being vacuumed out. A strange fog enveloped them, swirling with the same blues that had colored their bodies. When it dissipated, they were both back to normal.

Harry and Ron shared a long, wide eyed look. Ron broke first, lunging for the discarded sweets packet. As soon as he snatched it up, the wrapper transformed. Golden script unfurled across the newly vibrant packaging, jaunty letters proclaiming the candies to be “Mad-Eye Moodies.”

Ron flipped the wrapper, to where a block of text now waited. 

_Introducing Mad-Eye Moodies! A decorative guide to complex emotions. Use them on friends, enemies, (or even yourself!) to escape the dangers of a hidden psyche. Constant vigilance, mischief makers! Mad-Eye Moodies: unveiling the windows of the soul, one sweet-tooth at a time!_

“Mad-Eye Moodies?” Harry snorted. “So it’s like a mood ring?”

“What’s a mood ring?” Ron asked, nose wrinkling.

“Muggle thing, never mind,” said Harry. “Is there a guide or something? You were _bleeding sunlight from your eyes._ What emotion is _that_ supposed to be?”

Ron re-examined the packaging and shrugged. “Nah, nothing.” He wrapped the remaining candies in it and shoved it back in his pocket.

“Bloody useless then,” Harry muttered. “Constant vigilance, my arse. Moody must be spinning in his grave.”

“I dunno,” said Ron, expression considering. “Care to explain why there was a literal rainstorm in _your_ eyes? That one seems pretty plain to me, mate.”

“I’m fine,” Harry growled, but the strain in his voice betrayed the obvious lie. He sighed, then glanced at Ron with narrowed eyes. “You knew what these did, didn’t you?”

“Nope, promise.” He raised his hands in surrender. “Thought it would be a good distraction, is all.”

Harry grunted and threw another stone at the lake, not even bothering to aim this time.

“Look, mate, we don’t have to talk about it,” Ron said. He knocked his shoulder against Harry’s. “I’m just here to keep you company.” 

Harry folded back into himself, bowing under a rush of gratitude. Regretting his prickly manner, he cocked his head and gave Ron a tiny smile. “Thanks, Ron.”

They sat in silence as the sky began to darken, but Harry knew it would be hours yet before he could expect Draco’s return.

Two nights ago, they had hurried to the castle after leaving their cottage and confessed everything to McGonagall. To say she was displeased with Harry’s Dark Magic experiments would be an understatement. Fortunately, however, after some choice words on her part and a bit of groveling on Harry’s, she had been willing to listen.

Intrigued by their idea, McGonagall had immediately written to Azkaban. And quicker than Harry would have believed possible, all the arrangements were made. 

Yesterday afternoon, McGonagall informed Harry and Draco that the Ministry had approved the release of five Death Eater wands into the custody of Hogwarts, for research purposes. She planned to travel to Azkaban the next day to collect the wands. They would be removed from evidence storage and signed over to her.

Just as Harry was about to thank McGonagall, Draco had spoken up, asking to travel to Azkaban in the Headmistress’ stead. 

Harry was horrified, but McGonagall had silenced his protests. She gave Draco a long, appraising look, before calmly asking him to explain. Draco’s response had been immediate and unemotional, delivered in that posh tone he still fell into when arguing a point. He claimed that by visiting his father, he would be in a unique position to possibly uncover vital information. 

Harry had been sure McGonagall would refuse Draco, but to Harry’s dismay, she had agreed, albeit with some trepidation. She hurried off to send a few more owls, and a mere two hours later she had presented Draco with a Portkey that would take him from Hogsmeade to the Ministry at 11am the following day. Travel to Azkaban would be facilitated from there.

Despite the lengthy argument Harry had instigated last night, Draco had been adamant that Harry would stay behind at Hogwarts.

This morning, Harry had walked with Draco into Hogsmeade, and when they arrived, he couldn’t stop himself from making one last plea.

Draco had leaned into Harry, expression far softer than it had been the night before, and touched his cheek. “Thank you, for offering. I know how hard it would be for you to go there, to see the place where Sirius was held captive for so long.”

Harry had tried to interrupt, to insist that it would be just as hard for Draco, but Draco spoke over him. 

“No, Potter.” He shook his head firmly. “I won’t be able to go through with it unless you stay here.” His eyes skittered away and he hesitated, but he took a breath and locked his gaze back on Harry. “I need to know that you’re what I’m coming home to.”

And then he had kissed Harry and stepped carefully away from him. Ten seconds later, he was gone.

Harry had walked slowly back to Hogwarts, a sick fear coiling in his guts. 

The mention of Sirius had unbalanced him, unleashing an avalanche of dark memories to fester in his blood. Azkaban had stolen Sirius from him, had broken his godfather with the weight of years he should have spent with Harry. And now Draco was going there, all alone, to face his monster of a father in a place that drove men mad. 

The day passed miserably, as Harry tried and failed to find ways to distract himself. 

By early afternoon, the quiet bustle of the common room had become unbearable. Even the sight of a fully healed Padma Patil, blushing slightly as she held Luna’s hand, was only able to lift Harry’s spirits for a few minutes. He welcomed Padma back warmly and beamed happily for Luna when she kissed Padma’s cheek, but his thoughts kept tangling with images of Dementors and eventually, he had fled to the lake.

Harry shivered as a gust of wind whipped by, snaking beneath his collar like the unwelcome clasp of cold, skeletal fingers. He pulled his scarf more tightly around him. Ron tugged up the hood of his cloak and dug a pair of gloves out of his pocket.

“I hate that he’s there alone,” Harry finally whispered, not looking at Ron.

Ron nodded and squeezed Harry’s shoulder briefly. “I know, mate.” He leaned back, resting his weight on his gloved hands, and gazed out at the lake thoughtfully. “He apologized, you know. To me and Hermione both. Neville too, I reckon.”

“He did?” Startled, Harry shifted to face Ron.

“Yup. Couple days after that chess game. Bit of a shock, really. I figured we’d just let it go, move on.”

Harry twisted his fingers together nervously. “Did it - er, go ok?”

“Well, you know Hermione – she didn’t exactly let him off the hook. Gave him a piece of her mind, of course, but then she held his hand and thanked him and told him she accepted his apology. And then –” Ron continued with a groan, rolling his eyes - “they argued about ‘arithmantic numeral philosophy’ for twenty bloody minutes!” 

Harry attempted a laugh, but it seemed to die on his tongue. His eyes darted to Ron and then away again. “What about you?” he asked softly.

Ron shrugged. “I told him he was still a bit of a wanker, but since I’d gotten a few punches in over the years, I figured we were ok now.”

Something tentative and warm bloomed in Harry’s chest, warring with his doubt. “Yeah?” he asked hopefully. He bit his lip. “But – but what about the Death Eater stuff?”

Ron straightened and pinned Harry with a serious look. “He didn’t make any excuses for it. But look, Harry, we remember what it was like at the Manor, ok? Malfoy’s a git, but I reckon he didn’t have much choice about the Death Eater thing. We're not gonna hold that against him.”

The sudden relief was so profound and so overwhelming that Harry felt the beginnings of tears prick at his eyes. “Ron, I –” he started to say, voice hoarse. He shook his head and swallowed to clear his throat. “Thank you.”

Ron waved an unconcerned hand.

“No, really,” Harry insisted. “Thank you, for being so – for not –” he paused, floundering for the right words. “For being ok with it. With him. I know I just sort of sprung it on you, and you probably still thought I was gonna marry your sister someday, and I just –”

“Mate, stop,” Ron interrupted, placing a forceful hand on Harry’s arm. “You’re family, ok? You don’t have to thank family for things like that.” 

Harry twisted out of Ron’s grip, hiding his face as he sniffled.

When he looked back up, Ron was watching him with a sly smile. “Besides, didn’t Ginny break up with _you?”_ he teased.

“Well yeah –” Harry answered. He squirmed slightly and looked down at his hands. “But it was my fault. I mean, what with me being gay and all.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, but that’s not why she broke it off. She didn’t even know!”

They both chuckled a bit.

“Anyway,” Ron continued, “she’ll probably be a lot less awkward around you once it gets out you’re dating Malfoy. She felt guilty leaving you, you know.”

Harry cringed. He’d suspected as much, but it still hurt to have it confirmed. “I never wanted her to feel that way,” he said dejectedly.

“Mate, she’s fine. Happy, even,” said Ron. “She just wants you to be happy too.”

“I am happy,” Harry whispered, clenching a fist to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut. The worry was back, like a persistent dog biting at his ankles.

“He’ll be alright, mate.” Ron clapped him on the shoulder and jostled him a bit. “You know, me and Hermione weren’t all that surprised about you and Malfoy.”

Harry’s eyes snapped open. “What?” he exclaimed.

“It kind of makes sense, looking back.” Ron nodded to himself, giving Harry a weighted once-over. “The way you two always followed each other around, couldn’t stop staring at each other. Guess there was something to that, after all.” Ron blew out an amused breath and shook his head fondly.

Harry goggled at him.

“Alright, up you get!” Ron stood and tugged at Harry’s arm. “Your lips are turning blue.”

Harry shook off his grip and hunched forward, refusing to budge. “Ron, I can’t. I can’t just sit in the common room while he’s –”

“I know,” Ron interrupted gruffly. “But I’m under strict orders not to let you freeze to death. You can thank Hermione.” He kicked Harry’s shins lightly. “Now come on, I’ll make you a cup of tea at Hagrid’s. Might as well make some use of the place while he’s off reforming the Giants or whatever.”

As they walked along the lake, a tentacle emerged lazily from the water and swiped the stones off the top of the ice floes. Ron nattered on about the desserts he wanted his mum to bake over Christmas and matched his pace to Harry’s. 

Harry tipped his head back, gazing up at the snow coating the tree branches. He let Ron’s voice wash over him and released a long, slow exhale.

When he breathed in again, the anxiety seemed to have loosened. He looked over at Ron and smiled.

***

Harry started awake as the door to the bedroom creaked open.

He had nodded off against the wall, sitting cross-legged on top of the Potions table. After one wild moment of disorientation, his eyes focused on Draco.

Scrambling to the floor, Harry cursed at the shaky pins-and-needles feeling in his legs. He caught himself with a hand against the wardrobe and started to stumble across the room.

The non-expression on Draco’s face stopped Harry in his tracks. 

Draco looked windswept, everything about him carefully scrubbed away until he resembled a porcelain doll. Striking. Cold. Breakable.

He shied away from Harry, masking the movement by drawing off his cloak. His hands lingered as he hung it neatly on the hook by the door. 

Back turned, Draco spoke in a flat voice. “I delivered the wands safely to the Headmistress. She expects us to meet her by the Forest tomorrow at noon.”

Harry nodded, even though Draco could not see him, and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. “Malfoy, are you –”

“I’m fine, Potter,” Draco interrupted in the same dull tone.

The lack of inflection was alarming enough, but even worse was his unnatural stillness. Harry was used to a Draco that brimmed with life – fingers in constant motion, eyes bright and calculating, energy dancing under his skin. This Draco resembled an inanimate corpse.

Fists clenched, nails digging deeply into his palms, Harry managed to lean against the wardrobe and match Draco’s stillness. He wanted to rush over to him, cover him in kisses and breathe the fire back into him – but he knew better than to try. Draco’s shields were up, the icy façade firmly in place, and so Harry needed to wait for Draco to come to him.

Draco finally stopped fussing with his cloak and moved across the room with a slow, measured gait. He forced the window up as far as it would go, before sticking his head out and inhaling deeply. After a few careful breaths, he ducked back inside. Dropping heavily onto one of the lab stools, he picked up his pruning shears and began to tend to his plants.

Moving quietly, so as not to spook him, Harry approached the foot of the bed. He climbed up and sprawled casually atop the Gryffindor blanket, making sure he wasn’t directly facing Draco. Harry didn’t want his body language to suggest any kind of pressure or expectation.

A few minutes passed, the clipping of the shears oppressively loud in the otherwise silent room. Harry noticed when Draco’s hands began to shake, and he had to bite his lip to keep from saying anything. 

Suddenly, the shears clattered against the windowsill. Draco clasped his hands together and wrenched his body away from the plants. He walked along the lab table, rummaging in its drawers until he found a bundle of matches. He attempted to strike one, but was now trembling so badly that he dropped it on the floor. 

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, sounding close to tears. 

His fingers fumbled over a second match and then his entire body went rigid. He balled his hands into fists and threw the remaining matches violently against the wall.

“Potter,” Draco said, barely audible. “I need –” Unable to continue, he hung his head and gripped the edge of the table.

Harry was there in an instant, pressing himself against Draco’s back and wrapping his arms around him. Draco collapsed against him, shuddering. His shirt was damp with sweat, his breathing harsh and erratic. 

Keeping one arm securely around Draco, Harry reached out and managed to snag the matches. He struggled for a moment, before being forced to accept that lighting a match required two hands. 

Harry held the matches up where Draco could see them. “I’ll take care of the fire. You should change out of these clothes.” 

Draco’s hands clenched around Harry’s arm in a flash of panic. Dropping the matches, Harry rubbed a soothing hand over Draco’s stomach and pressed kisses lightly along his temple.

Finally, Draco nodded and pulled away from Harry, taking stilted steps toward the wardrobe.

When they got into bed, Draco lay flat on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Harry settled on his side. He braced his elbow against the mattress and propped his head in hand, gazing down at Draco.

In the brief time it had taken to put on their nightclothes, Draco’s walls had gone up again, but Harry wasn’t going to wait for him to break this time. He shuffled closer and slipped a hand into Draco’s hair. Draco closed his eyes as Harry carefully undid his bun and combed his fingers lightly through the blond strands.

Just when Harry thought Draco might be dropping off to sleep, his eyes opened. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Harry’s.

Harry opened to him, letting Draco guide the pace of the kiss, accepting whatever Draco wanted to give. The heat built quickly, a frantic edge to Draco's movements. 

Without breaking the kiss, Draco started to cry. Silent tears coursed down his cheeks, eyes welling too quickly for the moisture to be blinked away. Harry pulled back, running a thumb over Draco’s cheekbones.

“Oh Malfoy –” Harry said tenderly.

Draco tensed. “Don’t call me that –” His lip quivered as his voice broke. “Not tonight. Please, Potter, please don’t.” 

He tried to twist out of Harry’s grasp, but Harry wouldn’t let go.

“Draco,” he whispered, and Draco’s breath hitched. He stopped struggling.

“Draco,” Harry said again. He brought his lips to Draco’s cheek. “Draco, darling.” He peppered the words across Draco’s skin, marking each with a reverent kiss. “Draco, love, _sweetheart_.”

Draco shook and sobbed as Harry held him.

“It’s alright, darling,” Harry soothed. “You’re ok.”

Harry eased Draco back against the pillows and began to pull up the blankets, but Draco caught his wrist.

“Not yet,” he mumbled. “Need to feel you. Please.”

Harry kissed Draco’s throat. “Like this?” he asked, his fingers skimming the waistband of Draco’s pants.

“Yes,” Draco cried. “Make me feel – alive.”

Harry’s insides squirmed with guilt. He never should have let Draco go alone. Azkaban was death personified, an isle of nothing but despair, and Draco deserved better than to be dragged through the muck of trauma and memory.

But Draco needed him, so Harry pushed the regret aside. He nuzzled against his neck, grounding himself in Draco’s subtle scent of herbs and warm soil.

Draco was soft, but he hardened quickly beneath Harry’s caressing fingers. He threw his head back, mouth opening in shock and pleasure.

It was not a night for teasing, Harry knew, so he gave Draco exactly what he needed. Firm strokes, a twist of the wrist, a thumb swiping over his slit to smear the pre-come gathered there.

Harry spoke softly to him as he pumped his cock, murmuring encouragements and endearments in his ear, telling him how beautiful and brilliant he was, how _good_. 

Draco’s tears stopped, giving way to a series of quiet moans. His legs trembled, his hands and toes curling up tightly. Harry saw the moment when the darkness let Draco go. He arched his back, and the lines of his face softened as he opened his eyes and stared up at Harry, the deep grey pools reflecting nothing but trust and love.

Draco spilled over Harry’s hand with a sigh of such relief that it was like a Patronus suddenly lit up the room. 

Hours later, Draco woke with a harsh shout. He gasped, fingers scrabbling wildly against the bedclothes, and let out one broken sob. Harry reached for him instinctually, pulling him close before even fully awake.

Shaking, Draco buried his head in Harry’s chest.

They had comforted each other after nightmares before, taming the unconscious fears by entwining their bodies, a reassurance as spiritual as it was physical.

But tonight, Harry sensed that Draco needed something more. He remembered then, what Draco had said just before leaving that morning, and how it had felt like a bright flash in the darkness, one word shining out like a single, vibrant autumn leaf caught in a whirlwind of dust and sorrow. 

“I’m here, Draco, I’m right here,” Harry murmured, running his hands up and down Draco’s back. “You’re with me, darling. You’re _home_.”

Draco shivered against him, and his breathing began to slow.

For the rest of the night, Harry cradled Draco in his arms, shielding him from anything that might hurt him, keeping the specter of Azkaban at bay.

And as the colors of dawn crept through the window, warring with the glow of the dying embers of the fire, Harry knew that home was no longer a place. It was a person.

Home meant _Draco._


	16. a cascade of spiders

Draco stood at the edge of the clearing. His head was bowed slightly, a fringe of hair obscuring his expression, but Harry didn’t need to see Draco’s face to know he was in turmoil. The air around him was alive with energy, his magic fizzling around him in increasingly frenetic spirals.

Draco himself however, was still, almost unnaturally poised – painstaking control exerted over a body primed for flight.

Harry dithered in the space between Draco and McGonagall, struggling to resist his protective impulses. He was certain Draco would not thank him for calling the Headmistress’ attention to his plight. 

But McGonagall was entirely focused on the five Death Eater wands laid out in front of her, running her fingers across their lengths and murmuring incantations. Harry loosed his magic in her direction, just enough to confirm the scant amount of icy residual magic around her. Only a few hooks clung to the hem of her robes, and thankfully, they seemed entirely uninterested in whatever type of diagnostic magic she was performing.

Harry looked over his shoulder just in time to see Draco take one tiny step backward, the movement so negligible that anyone else would have dismissed it as a meaningless fidget, if they noticed at all. Harry though, he understood Draco, and he saw the action for what it was – a crack. One that would spread to shatter Draco’s fragile, carefully constructed composure.

Moving silently, Harry retreated to the edge of the clearing and slipped his hand into Draco’s. Harry’s fingers throbbed as Draco latched on tightly. He darted a look at Harry, then averted his eyes.

Harry pressed a thumb to the pulse point of Draco’s wrist. Burying his nose in the side of Draco’s head, he breathed in the clean scent of his hair – _sunshine and citrus_ – and whispered, “You don’t have to be here.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, his face a mask of haughty disdain. “I do,” he said. Unconvincingly. Like his expression, the words were brittle.

“Draco,” Harry breathed, stroking a thumb across a sharp cheekbone, chasing that delicate pink blush. “What do you need?”

Draco shifted to face Harry fully, resting their foreheads together. He closed his eyes and said simply, “You.”

“I’m here, darling.” Harry slid his hands into Draco’s hair. “Draco,” he intoned, pulling back and waiting for those beautiful grey eyes to open. “I’ve got you.”

Draco smiled and relaxed into the embrace, stunning Harry with his sudden capitulation. It was the first time that day he’d shown no trace of embarrassment at Harry uttering his name.

Earlier this morning, Harry had woken first and stayed in bed, content to curl into Draco’s warm, sleeping body. 

When Draco finally stirred, Harry had gazed down at him tenderly and said, “Good morning, Draco.”

Draco had bolted upright, flushing a deep red as he clutched the blankets to his chest. Harry suppressed a chuckle, knowing that Draco was remembering (and panicking about) the vulnerability he had shown during the night. But Harry also knew that the shame was merely a surface reaction, and he wasn’t going to let it stop him from giving Draco what he needed.

So Harry had cupped Draco’s chin affectionately and smiled at him. “I love you,” he told him.

Draco swallowed visibly. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

“Why don’t you take a shower, Draco?” Harry said, watching the blush deepen. “I’m going to get us some breakfast.”

Without waiting for a response, Harry had kissed Draco on the temple and climbed out of bed. He pulled on trousers and a cloak before heading out to the Great Hall.

When he returned, Draco had been sitting on the bed fully dressed. He was staring down at his hands, looking rather lost, but when Harry sat down next to him, his eyes cleared and his mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile.

They’d had a quiet morning, sharing toast slathered with jam from the pot Harry smuggled out of the castle. And Harry had taken every opportunity to use Draco’s given name.

Draco had blushed. every. single. time. He’d even squirmed a little at first. But he never once pulled away or tensed up or asked Harry to stop.

Draco _was_ jittery throughout the morning, but that was only to be expected after the ordeal he’d had, and eventually, he settled enough that Harry felt able to broach the subject of Azkaban.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he’d asked softly, about an hour before they were due to meet McGonagall by the Forest.

“No,” Draco said. He frowned, plucking at the buttons of his shirt. “Not – not right now.”

Harry nodded at him gently. “Alright.”

“My – my father –” Draco hesitated. He reached for one of their discarded teacups and took a small sip of the cold dregs. His hand shook slightly when he set the cup down. “He did not say anything relevant.” 

Harry’s heart sank, but he refused to let the dismay touch his face. Bad enough that Draco had endured Azkaban at all, without feeling like he had failed at his self-appointed mission.

“That’s ok, darling,” Harry said, taking his hand. “We don’t need him. We’ll figure it out.”

Draco had nodded, and his eyes went distant, his expression hardening into a glare of defiance.

An echo of that fierceness crossed his face now as he stared down at Harry. A wind gusted through the trees behind them, tousling Draco’s blond tendrils.

“Don’t cast the Dark spells, Potter,” he said. “Let the Headmistress.”

Harry nodded, still cradling Draco’s head in his hands. “Promise.”

“And if the residue hurts you –” he started.

But Harry didn’t let him finish. “It will hurt me,” he said, voice definitive and unafraid.

Draco jerked back and started to interrupt. Harry smoothed his thumbs over Draco’s temples and pulled him close again.

“– but it won’t break me,” he finished. “Because you’ve got me, just like I’ve got you.”

Draco’s eyes flashed and he stood up straighter. He nodded once, firmly resolved, and disentangled himself from Harry. He swiped the hair out of his eyes with the air of a man spitting in the face of Death.

“Thank you,” Draco said, carefully not looking at Harry. “For making me brave.”

“No, Draco,” Harry said quietly. “That’s all you.”

Harry swiftly pressed a palm to Draco’s chest, a gentle reminder of the strength at his heart. Then, turning his back on Draco’s startled expression, he strode over to McGonagall.

“I’m ready, Professor,” said Harry.

McGonagall broke off her incantation mid-word, as if her wand inspection had been nothing more than a ruse to give Harry and Draco space. Harry felt the back of his neck heat, but the soft crinkle at the corner of McGonagall’s eyes spoke of pride and fondness, and Harry could not help but feel touched.

“Excellent, Mr. Potter,” said McGonagall. “Will you be able to perform your Aperiomancy while standing behind me? I do not want to cast in your direction.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry agreed.

He moved to flank McGonagall’s left side. Draco stayed at the edge of the clearing, but shifted so that he was behind McGonagall as well.

“I plan to cycle through the five wands, casting several different Dark Magic spells with each. Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, please remain in these exact positions until I tell you I am finished. If either of you need me to stop for any reason, simply say the word and I will do so immediately. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Certainly, Headmistress.”

Their voices overlapped, and Harry was relieved to hear that Draco’s was steady.

Harry closed his eyes. Bending his knees to ground himself, he let the rest of his body grow slack. His magic poured from his fingers, tracking toward McGonagall like tendrils of slow-moving fog. 

Harry heard the first spell, the guttural syllables of _Crucio_ sounding entirely wrong in McGonagall’s warm Scottish brogue, but soon he was awash in physical sensation, registering the change of spells only when there was a shift in the pain.

_The sudden harshness is overwhelming at first, a slick burn reverberating through his magic and sending shockwaves of agony in ripples over his skin. Harry shrinks back from it, losing all rational thought in a moment of panic._

_He thought he’d been prepared for this, after what he put himself through earlier in the week, but McGonagall’s spells are so much stronger than his own, and oh – how he_ hurts.

_Harry nearly pulls away, an almost irresistible compulsion to snap the tether, to haul his magic back inside his body’s protective shell._

_But then, instinctually, something deep inside him calls out to Draco. Harry diverts some of his magic behind him, snagging a tiny sliver of it into Draco’s comforting fizzles._

_A calm certainty descends, allowing Harry to breathe through the pain, even as the burn morphs into the sharp cut of knives. Miraculously, Harry adjusts, and he is able to direct his magic again, reclaiming ownership as he draws strength from Draco._

_Harry feels the familiar ice flickering and snapping at the edge of his magic, and he pushes past the distracting torture of the Dark Magic spells. He finds McGonagall’s magic and tracks it, careening through her core and over her hands and to the tip of the wand. And there is something_ wrong _about it – a tear, a crack in the grains of the wood. An unbecoming. An unraveling. A high, evil laugh. And there! He finds them at last. The hooks, those vindictive little bastards, spilling from the wand like a cascade of spiders to clamor around McGonagall’s feet. They sink into the ground and scuttle and spread, snapping and snarling and sinking their teeth into the depths of Harry’s magic, and he can hold on, he’s ok…_

_until suddenly he’s not._

_The hooks swarm over him in an undulating wave, and he’s truly, desperately, not ok._

_Harry staggers backward, stumbling as he tries to yank his magic back, but it’s trapped in the jaws of the insatiable spiders and he feels it tearing, a wrenching sensation in his chest and stomach and hips, and it’s too much. Harry is afraid to fight it, certain that his magic will be ripped from him, devoured and consumed by this darkness._

_He falls to the ground_

_and the earth beneath him shatters like glass._

_Breathing is an insurmountable struggle. Everything is so cold and his blood cracks and boils and freezes. A violent wind roars in his ears and the entire world fragments into sizzling and static. He is lost in a snowstorm, trapped beneath the ice, writhing and tormented and buried alive._

_And then suddenly,_

_something shifts._

_To the left of him, he can see the sky, and everything there twists inside out, becoming somehow warm and fuzzy and safe. Harry rolls into it._

_The hooks are still behind him, scrabbling at his back in a rush of friction and desperate teeth, but in front of him,_ life _shimmers. He breathes in the glow and rightness of it, and he feels his magic puff up like a cloud. The hooks release, and Harry finally cuts the connection, pulling back into himself before the glutinous maw of the manufactured residue can snap closed again._

_And the pain_

_stops._

Harry sucked in heaving breaths, eyes clenched shut. As his heart began to slow, he felt familiar hands on his back and shoulders. The buzzing in his ears faded, and then there was a voice, a voice he loved, whispering over and over, the words given unto the air like a sacred ritual.

“I’ve got you, it’s alright, I’m here Potter, I’ve got you.”

Harry shuddered and sobbed once as his stomach roiled dangerously, but he concentrated on the hands and the voice, and then he went still.

When Harry came to a minute later, he found that his head was nestled in Draco’s lap. He smiled up at him. “Hello, darling.”

Draco choked, and Harry heard a muffled cough that must have been McGonagall.

“Fuck, Potter,” Draco rasped. He jerked Harry upright and crushed Harry’s face into his chest. “You fucking _bastard.”_

“I’m ok,” Harry wheezed, Draco’s arms like a vice around him.

Harry yelped as Draco’s grip tightened further. Draco kissed him once atop his head, almost violently, and then released him. 

McGonagall coughed again.

“I’m fine, Professor,” Harry assured her, ignoring Draco grumbling obscenities at his side. He brushed some snow off his sleeves. “No harm done.”

McGonagall glared at him disapprovingly from where she knelt at his side. “Well, I believe a visit to the hospital wing is in order, Mr. Potter,” she huffed.

“Professor, please!” Harry exclaimed. “We don’t have time for that! We should keep going. Test something with your wand now.”

“Over my dead body,” Draco snarled, almost drowning out McGonagall’s strident “Absolutely not!”

Harry sighed. He took one of Draco’s hands placatingly, but kept his attention on the Headmistress.

“It worked, Professor,” Harry said quietly. “The hooks came from Death Eater wands. Voldemort warped them somehow. I felt him, inside the wood.”

McGonagall pressed a hand to her chest as her face went pale. “You cannot possibly be suggesting that these wands are – horcruxes?” 

Harry blanched, horrified at the implication. “No! Professor, no, not like that,” he rushed to correct her. “It’s not his soul, just an echo of his magic. Like his own residue.”

“Of course,” McGonagall breathed. “Forgive my assumption.”

Draco turned hard, skeptical eyes on Harry. “Are you sure you’re alright, Potter?”

“Yeah. Draco, I’m fine.” He squeezed Draco’s hand. “I was careless. There were too many of the hooks, and I unleashed all my magic into them. I should have held back more. But I can do it safely now.”

Draco’s frown deepened and his gaze roved over Harry. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him because his brow softened. “Ok,” he whispered. 

Harry’s heart leapt when he registered the trust in Draco’s voice.

“Headmistress,” Draco asked, “would you be willing to cast one more spell? A harmless one this time? _Lumos_ , perhaps?”

“I hardly think that wise, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall replied reproachfully.

Undaunted, Draco said, “I need to know if the hooks are strictly residual _Dark_ Magic, or if any spell cast with these wands will produce them.”

“Will that help you brew an antidote?” Harry asked in excitement.

Draco tugged at his collar nervously. “It might.”

“Ok,” Harry readily agreed. “Let’s do it.” He turned to McGonagall. “Professor, I promise it won’t knock me out again. If you only cast one spell, and I only use a tiny piece of my magic, I’ll be able to access the residue without overwhelming myself.”

McGonagall bristled, her shoulders tightening. “I cannot condone putting you in further danger, Mr. Potter.”

“We’re not, Professor,” Harry argued. “I swear I’m fine.”

She pursed her lips and stood. Harry jumped up, positioning himself behind her again. He tugged Draco to his feet as well.

“Stay with me?” Harry asked under his breath.

Draco nodded, keeping hold of Harry’s hand.

“A moment, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said.

She bustled up to him and ran her fingers across his forehead. With her other hand, she traced a circular shape across his sternum. 

Glowing blue symbols appeared in the air between them. McGonagall took her time looking through them. While she swiped some aside carelessly, most were regarded with serious intent. Finally, she waved her hand and they disappeared.

“It appears you were correct, Mr. Potter,” said McGonagall. “You have suffered no ill effects.”

Harry beamed at her. She clucked her tongue somewhat disapprovingly, but then returned his smile.

McGonagall returned to her original casting position and glanced over her shoulder.

“Ready, Professor,” Harry said.

She nodded sternly, then turned away and raised her wand. _“Lumos.”_

As McGonagall maintained the spell, Harry focused on reigning himself in. Instead of opening like a floodgate, he looped a strand of his magic around Draco’s and wove it back into himself, hitching the knot of magic at his center to Draco. When he was confident he had a proper hold on it, he teased out another strand, letting it travel along his arm and trickle out of only one finger. Guiding it toward McGonagall, he tentatively prodded at her _Lumos_. The chill shock of the hooks descended instantaneously.

Harry closed his hand into a fist, severing the connection. His magic snapped back into him just as McGonagall cried, _“Nox!”_

Draco grabbed Harry by the shoulders and seemed to be inspecting him for any sign of damage.

“I’m ok,” Harry panted. He was out of breath, but he was still standing, and he considered that a victory. He grinned at Draco cheekily. “Didn’t even hurt this time.” 

Draco leaned his forehead against Harry’s, sighing in relief, but he stepped back hastily when McGonagall joined them.

“The result, Mr. Potter?” she asked.

“It’s the wands,” Harry confirmed gravely. “ _Lumos_ released the same hooks. Light or Dark, any spells cast with these wands are poison.”

“I was beginning to suspect as much,” sighed McGonagall. “And I am afraid it is past time to involve the Ministry.”

Feeling uneasy, Harry darted a look at Draco, only to find that his eyes were glazed over and distant. He was rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip absently and mumbling something unintelligible. Harry caught the words _vector, transference_ , and _associative ratio_ before wrenching his attention away and refocusing on McGonagall.

“Professor, I don’t –” Harry trailed off, not sure how to tactfully bring up his absolute distrust of the Ministry.

“I know you do not think highly of the Ministry, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall cut in smoothly. She gave him a sharp look, and for a moment, Harry thought the statement a rebuke. But then McGonagall bared her teeth in a rather vicious grin, and Harry knew she was on his side. “For good reason,” she continued. “Rest assured, I have no intention of letting those goons run rampant at Hogwarts. A few discreet inquiries in the Department of Mysteries will serve us well.”

At the mention of the Department of Mysteries, Draco perked up, resurfacing from his mental fog. He frowned, but after a few seconds of rewinding the conversation in his head, he seemed to share Harry’s relief.

Harry was about to thank McGonagall when a muffled boom heralded the arrival of a fire message. With a flash and a puff of smoke, a bit of parchment appeared in front of the Headmistress. She adjusted her spectacles and leaned forward to read.

A moment later, McGonagall gasped. Her eyes flitted across the parchment more quickly as the color drained from her face.

“Professor, what is it?” said Harry.

McGonagall did not answer, just stared at the parchment in stunned shock.

“Headmistress?” Draco asked hesitantly.

McGonagall folded the note neatly and tucked it into the pocket of her robes. “I am needed back at the castle.” She gathered her cloak more tightly around her and began to stride away.

“Professor, please!” Harry cried, already scrambling after her. “What happened?”

McGonagall stopped and turned to face Harry and Draco, her mouth a grim line. “It’s Ms. Lovegood.”

Draco went rigid. 

McGonagall focused her gaze on Draco, brow furrowed in obvious concern. When she spoke again, it was in a gentle, hushed tone. “She collapsed, and there appears to be damage to her core.” McGonagall took a shaky breath. “Her magic is bleeding out of her.”

***

As Harry, Draco, and Headmistress McGonagall hurried toward the castle, Draco making pained, choked noises and Harry with a steadying grip on his elbow – a change came over the clearing they had so thoroughly saturated with Dark Magic.

One by one, tiny, radiant flowers began to bloom.


	17. blood ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit of an emotional whirlwind. Please read with care, and check the end notes for content warnings and potential triggers.  
> Love to all <3

Harry lay flat on his back, head hanging awkwardly over the edge of the bed. Blood was pounding incessantly in his temples, and while the sensation was far from pleasant, this was the most focused he’d felt in days. 

Besides, from this position, he could keep one eye on Draco, who sat at the center of a circle of bubbling cauldrons. Even though he couldn’t see Draco’s face, Harry found the sight of his mussed blond bun more than a little comforting.

Draco was working in the tiny kitchen of their bespelled cottage, while Harry lounged in the lofted bedroom. Relaxing his muscles into the plush mattress, Harry released his magic in tiny pulses, tossing it away from him only to snap it back into his waiting hands, as if he were playing with an invisible ball. 

A month ago, something like this might have been a distraction, his mind fraught and overextended as he wrangled his magic into submission, but now, the control had become second nature to Harry, and channeling nervous energy into magical gymnastics actually freed his thoughts instead of hampering them.

Jaw clenched, Harry settled into the rhythms of his intangible game of catch and continued raking through his memories. He was desperate to dig up something, anything, some clue, from when McGonagall’s use of the Death Eater wands had unleashed more of the hooked residue.

There had to be something he had missed, something that would explain why Draco’s potions weren’t doing what he wanted them to. Harry didn’t understand all of it, but he knew that Draco was attempting to use the protective essence of the flowers to create a potion that would shield witches and wizards from the twisting influence of the hooks. 

Draco had been independently studying advanced Potions for years, often alone, but also through extra lessons with both Snape and Slughorn. One of the things he had previously mastered was a process that Healers used for adapting spells into ingestible antidotes. 

Theoretically, Draco argued, it should be simple. He merely had to use the flowers as the base catalyst in a potion that he reverse-crafted from spells that destroyed residual Dark Magic (with slight alterations to allow for the residue being artificially manufactured rather than naturally occurring). But none of his trials were responding as he expected, and though Draco would not yet admit it, Harry knew that he was stuck. 

After Luna’s collapse on Sunday, Harry and Draco had spent the afternoon in the hospital wing. By the time they reached her, Madam Pomfrey had already called in the specialist from St. Mungo’s who had treated Padma. The Healer had placed Luna in a deep stasis, and it only took a few gentle probes at her core for Harry to find the cluster of hooks biting into her magic.

Harry reeled backward, choking on a pained noise as he darted an anxious look at Draco. Draco’s face was stricken, crumpled in grief, and Harry didn’t want to worry him further by panicking. 

Draco had settled at Luna’s bedside, holding her hand and murmuring to her about the Munching Margraves he could see in the corner.

Struggling to control his breathing, Harry edged around the hospital beds, wanting to consult with the Healer.

It was the first time he had seen the hooks _inside_ someone; always before they had gone after spells, only directly attacking Harry’s magic when _he_ had thrust it into _them._ Inside his own body, inside his core, he’d thought he was safe. He’d thought they _all_ were. But clearly, he had been wrong.

After one last, desperate look at the space beside Draco, where he’d much rather be heading, Harry swallowed down his fear and ducked into Madam Pomfrey’s office.

Healer Tahlyn was an imposing woman, tall with broad shoulders and a stern mouth, but she listened intently to Harry’s explanation about the vicious residue they were fighting. Eyes bright and discerning, Tahlyn nodded sharply as he spoke, her black curls bouncing almost impatiently on her shoulders. 

After treating Padma, Tahlyn had known that the residue was feeding on spells. Luna’s case, when combined with Harry’s new information, suggested something much more sinister. Denied spells to prey on – Hogwarts had been functioning without wands for weeks, relying on House Elf magic, which did not resonate with wizards’ magic and thus was not susceptible to residue – the hooks seemed to be resorting to attacks on magic itself.

At some point in the conversation, Harry heard swift footsteps and turned to find that Draco had abruptly left the room. Harry’s chest tightened, as if all the air in the vicinity had trailed after Draco. Shifting from foot to foot, Harry tugged at his collar and somehow managed to kept his eyes on Tahlyn.

Harry felt faint with relief when less than ten minutes later, Draco strode purposefully back into the hospital wing, his arms overflowing with flowers. Without saying a word, he arranged them lovingly around Luna’s bedside, even taking the time to weave a lovely purple bloom into her hair. When he finished, Draco resumed his position by Luna’s side, catching up her hand and protectively shifting his chair closer.

Having finished with Tahlyn, Harry finally claimed the spot next to Draco and placed a comforting hand on the small of his back. 

McGonagall joined them briefly, only long enough to assure them that Luna was stable. The hooks were as frozen as she was, and at the moment, they had every reason to believe she could stay that way indefinitely. There was time yet to search for a cure.

With one last sympathetic look at Draco, and a firm reminder to keep her apprised of their progress with an antidote, McGonagall swept imperiously from the room, likely to get in touch with her contacts in the Department of Mysteries.

“Ok?” Harry whispered, leaning his head toward Draco.

Draco nodded curtly, sunken eyes still fixed on Luna’s face. Harry thought she looked almost otherworldly laid out across the starched white sheets of the hospital bed, like an elusive creature you could never be sure you hadn’t dreamed. He was suddenly terrified she would fade away, dissolving before their eyes, insubstantial as mist.

“I need one more minute here,” Draco rasped. He coughed once, roughly, and glared vaguely in Harry’s direction. “And then,” he continued, tone hardened against doubt, “we are going to go back to the dorm and invent a potion to fix her.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, taking Draco’s free hand. “We are.”

They stayed with Luna for almost two more hours, and when Draco had finally stood to go, Harry stopped him, just for a moment.

“Why Luna?” he’d asked, gaze lingering on her too-pale skin. “Her spell was the first to hurt someone, and now this? Why did it have to be her?”

There was a long pause before Draco responded. When he spoke, the words shimmered with awe and love, despite the bitter undercurrent of anger. “Because the residue twists light into darkness, and Luna is the most purely good of any of us.”

Draco bent down then and kissed Luna tenderly on the forehead, before leading Harry from the room.

And now, two days later, things had only grown worse. 

Neville, Hannah, and Blaise Zabini had joined Luna in the hospital wing, suspended in stasis with the hooks burrowed deep in their cores. 

After the three of them collapsed in quick succession, McGonagall had evacuated the eighth year dorm. In hindsight, it seemed glaringly obvious that the eighth years would be most affected. More Death Eater activity on the grounds of Hogwarts meant that the residue would be more abundant there than inside the castle.

McGonagall sequestered the entire Potions wing, affording Draco privacy to work, but after he’d wasted an entire morning pacing and frazzled, Harry dragged him bodily from the dungeons and out into the November cold.

Draco had settled immediately, turning his face up to the sky and gulping in huge breaths of the fresh air. After pondering for a moment, Harry had led him to their cottage, and by the time Harry had gotten every window in the place open, Draco had already started brewing. He’d been hunched over the cauldrons in the kitchen ever since.

Harry skimmed his hands across the satiny silver bedspread and gingerly eased his head from side to side. His neck was beginning to ache. Reluctantly, he shifted to rest his head fully on the mattress, losing sight of Draco. 

Shoving his socked feet under the pillows at the top of the bed, Harry bolstered himself with the comfort of their warm weight and went back to contemplating the Death Eater wands.

He suppressed a shiver as he recalled finding the break inside of them. Voldemort’s presence was strong, festering deep in the wood, and the hooks had spewed from the wound like an unwieldy stream of blood and pus. 

McGonagall’s spells had been too strong for Harry to handle, and he might be in even worse shape than Luna right now, if it hadn’t been for Draco.

When Harry had revived with his head in Draco’s lap, he’d assumed that his connection with Draco had grounded him, giving him just enough wherewithal to scramble back into himself.

But something about that moment was bothering him now. 

He closed his eyes, imagining the harsh, cold-fire burn against his back, the snapping of the hooks as he desperately tore himself away, trying to get to Draco, to find the strength to sever his connection with the hooks.

But that wasn’t right, was it? 

Harry clenched his fists, desperate to remember.

No, that wasn’t right. Harry _hadn’t_ found that strength. The hooks let him go _before_ he reclaimed his magic. Harry hadn’t won; the hooks had retreated. 

No, not retreated. They hadn’t been able to follow when Harry rolled away. To Draco.

No. 

Harry _hadn’t_ been rolling to Draco, had he? That’s not what he’d felt. 

He’d seen a clear sky and felt _warmth._ He’d been rolling away from the hooks, fleeing to a space where the hooks were not. And where the hooks were not, he’d found – Draco!

Harry gasped and bolted upright.

His brain ticked backward, and a dozen tiny moments Harry hadn’t questioned suddenly clicked into place.

“Potter?” Draco’s anxious voice cut into Harry’s whirring thoughts. He turned to find Draco clambering off the ladder and into the loft. “What happened? I heard you cry out.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face and reached out to Draco with a smile. “I’m fine. C’mere a second?”

Draco obligingly settled on the edge of the bed, expression still pinched with worry. Harry closed his eyes and wasting no time butting his magic gently against Draco’s. 

It took Harry less than a minute to confirm what he suspected, and he quickly retracted his magic. Opening his eyes again, he grinned and leaned eagerly toward Draco.

“Draco,” Harry said, “I don’t know what this means, but the hooks – I think you’re immune to them.”

Draco blinked slowly at him and his fingers twitched. He pressed them into his thighs and frowned. “What? Potter, I –”

“The residue,” Harry interrupted, “it’s always around people. I told you that, remember? There are always at least a few hooks clinging to people, waiting for a spell.”

“Yes, but –” Draco attempted.

“But never around you! I just checked, to make sure, and there’s nothing.”

Draco hummed consideringly, but then his eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean that the residue has _never_ been near me, Potter –”

“Yes, Draco, it _does,”_ Harry insisted.

Draco opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Harry cut him off.

“No, Draco, listen –” he tugged on Draco’s arm until he huffed slightly and swung his feet up onto the bed. He shuffled closer and sat cross-legged, fully facing Harry.

“I had to stop loosing my magic around people,” Harry explained, “because I didn’t like how it felt, having to push through all the hooks. But I never stopped with you. It’s unconscious, instinctual, like. My magic is always looking for yours, whenever I’m tired or miss you or –” he paused, fighting back a blush - “or when one of us comes – and it has never hurt me. Not once. No cold. No hooks.”

Draco’s mouth went slack, his gaze growing distant. Harry yanked on his arm again. Draco’s eyes fluttered, but he refocused on Harry.

When he was sure he had Draco’s attention, Harry said, “When I passed out in the clearing, you saved me. The residue was literally ripping my magic to shreds, but then you were there, and there were no hooks around you, so I was able to get away. Draco, you’re _immune._ I bet you could do any spell you wanted right now and nothing would twist it.”

“None of my spells ever went wrong,” Draco breathed out. He sounded like he was cradling a miracle in his palms. “Everyone else’s did, before McGonagall took our wands. And you –” Draco’s eyes widened as he looked at Harry. “Only a few of yours were affected. Much less than everyone else –”

“Because I was with _you,”_ Harry finished, nodding excitedly.

“Merlin –” Draco marveled. Then, his expression cracked. “Oh shit. Oh bloody fucking hell.”

Draco eyes clenched shut, and he hugged his arms into his chest as if in pain. His knuckles went white where he was gripping his elbows.

“Draco?” Harry asked hesitantly.

But then, as quickly as the tension had gripped him, Draco relaxed. Tipping back his head, he let out a soft, incredulous laugh.

He opened his eyes and looked at Harry. “I can make the potion, Potter,” he whispered. “I know how to fix it. I know what to do.”

“What?” Harry cried. “Draco, that’s amazing!”

But Draco didn’t seem happy. His eyes were bright with discovery, but there was something dark and wary beneath. He looked haunted, despite his growing hope.

“Draco, what is it?” Harry asked, trailing a knuckle down Draco’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something,” said Draco, huddling almost imperceptibly into himself.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have to,” he assured Draco. “Not if you don’t want to. And even if you do, it’s ok to wait. You can make the potion first.”

Draco shook his head. “There’s nothing more to do until morning. I just began a new batch. It takes ten hours for the flowers to distill into the base liquid.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry repeated. 

“I do,” Draco said. “It’s past time.”

They sat quietly then, Harry waiting patiently as Draco stared into the distance and plucked absently at his cuffs. Finally, he squared his shoulders and undid the buttons at his wrists.

Face expressionless, Draco moved his hands to his collar and popped it open. He worked his way down the front of his shirt, unbuttoning it with brisk, efficient motions. Harry bit back a gasp when Draco let it slip off his shoulders. He pulled the shirt off and dropped it to the floor.

After one steadying breath, Draco extended his forearms to Harry, baring that vulnerable white skin for the first time.

A sick fear skittered across Harry’s body, slicing through him like dead leaves scraping harshly against the pavement. He felt goosebumps rise on his arms in the sudden chill. 

A thick, ropy scar cut through Draco’s faded Dark Mark, marring his flesh in one unbroken line from wrist to elbow. The slash across his opposite arm looked as though it had been just as deep.

Harry’s heart pounded, fighting against constricting iron bands of grief. The air thickened and he seemed to be seeing Draco through distorted glass, slamming himself against an invisible barrier that would not yield.

“When?” Harry asked, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

Draco’s head was bowed. “Two days after you escaped the Manor with Luna.”

Harry dug his nails into his palms. He had to ask, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Did – did they hurt you, for lying about me?”

Draco turned his head, hiding against his own shoulder. “Yes,” he muttered. Harry had to strain to hear. “But they had done worse before. That – that wasn’t why.”

“Oh, Draco.” Harry reached out to him, intending to take his hands, but Draco crossed his arms over his chest, hiding the scars from view.

He sighed and looked up, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “I went out to the woods, and I picked a spot where I could see the sky through the branches, and I just – let it all go. It didn’t even hurt.” Draco choked out a miserable little laugh. “I was so broken already.”

“But how –” Harry trailed off.

“It was the flowers,” Draco answered. There was a hint of wonder in his voice, the faintest brushstroke of color shining through the pain. “They were beautiful, Potter, just like the ones in the courtyard. I woke up covered in them. The vines were wrapped around my arms and there was blood everywhere, but the wounds were already closed.”

Harry wanted to touch him, to breach his shields and chase the hurts away. But Draco was lost in his story, skimming along the veil of the past, and Harry was afraid to disturb him, lest he fall.

“It was the blood,” Draco said, still looking at Harry, though it sounded like he was talking to himself. His mind had raced ahead of him before, and he was working it out now, checking his theories against reality, grounding himself as he spoke. “It had to be. My sacrifice for the prisoners. The glass flower in the dungeon. The threat – Voldemort tampering with the wands. The flowers were already growing. The vines were there before I –” Draco flinched - “before. I was dying, so they bloomed. My blood tied the flowers to me, bound me to their protection, kept me safe from myself – but also from the _hooks._ That’s what the potion needs. A blood tie.”

Draco’s eyes cleared and he let his arms drop away from his chest. He shifted slightly closer to Harry. “I hated the flowers at first,” he admitted. “It felt so unfair, that they couldn’t just let me – die. I cried and ripped them off me. I – I tried again, but I couldn’t reopen the wounds.” Draco looked down at his hands helplessly.

Harry twined his fingers tentatively into Draco’s. “I’m sorry, Draco. I am so sorry that happened to you.”

“Don’t,” Draco said, pulling out of Harry’s grip. “It was my fault. I was weak.” He tilted his head and smiled wryly. “I never could fight like you.”

“You were _strong,”_ Harry insisted. “You fought differently, and a lot later, but you fought just as hard, and with a lot less help than I had.”

A single tear trickled down Draco’s cheek. “It wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “I – I gave up.”

“No one can fight forever, Draco,” Harry said. “Especially not alone.”

When Draco ran a thumb over his left forearm, Harry recognized the gesture, though he had only ever seen him do it clothed. He wasn’t worrying at the Dark Mark, as Harry had always thought; he was tracing the line of the scar. His eyes were hollow, and Harry’s heart broke when he understood the shame that was hidden there.

Harry caught Draco’s left hand in his and brought his lips to the Dark Mark in a tender kiss. Draco sucked in a shocked breath and jerked back. Harry followed him.

“No, Draco,” he said, trailing kisses along the entire length of the scar. “These are not marks of failure, or weakness, or shame.” Harry lapped gently at the inside of Draco’s wrist, tracing his fingers in a reverent caress over the marred skin of Draco’s other arm. Draco stilled, and though his breathing remained harsh, his body relaxed under Harry’s touch.

Harry lifted his head and pressed his thumbs gently against the pressure points in Draco’s wrists. “This is not who you are,” he told Draco, gazing deep into his eyes. “This is something that was done to you. This is what you survived.”

The words seemed to echo between them, ricocheting off the impenetrable shell of Draco’s self-recrimination, bouncing straight back, unheeded, to Harry. 

The moment could have shattered then, littering the space between them with broken shards of poison and pity, sowing a minefield of loss and regret that they might never later have managed to cross.

But Harry remembered the Forbidden Forest and what Draco had done for him there, remembered how Draco had _seen_ him, never once shrinking from Harry’s brokenness. And so Harry did not waver. 

He reached across the divide and helped Draco hold the burden of his past, not because Draco could not shoulder it himself, not because Draco needed to be saved, but because Harry understood and accepted Draco’s pain. Harry looked at Draco then with nothing but respect, respect and a raw, unshakeable belief in the man Draco had become.

And somehow, Draco understood. 

He blinked, and then his eyes fractured, a ripple of – something – that disturbed, if not entirely dislodged, the shame entrenched there. 

Looking almost dazed, as uncertain as Harry had ever seen him, Draco reached up and pressed his fingers lightly against Harry’s lightning bolt scar.

Heart pounding wildly, Harry almost flinched away. No one had ever touched him there before – he had never allowed anyone to. He didn’t even like to touch it himself. But Draco’s calloused fingers stroking over his forehead felt so _right_ that Harry could have wept. 

Because in some ways, it was their scars that joined them. Harry and Draco had been casualties of war, shackled to opposite sides, but marked and tormented and broken by the same evil man. They had stitched themselves back together, and despite the cost of that, they could both see the strength and beauty in the scars left behind.

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut. Tilting his chin, he pressed his lips to Draco’s palm. He worshipped the skin there, working his way down in a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses, lavishing attention on all the tiny bones of Draco’s wrist.

A soft moan escaped Draco, and Harry smiled at the embarrassed little sound that followed it. Draco’s hand slipped, and Harry nipped gently at his fingertips before pulling Draco into his lap.

“Is this ok?” Harry asked, hands cupping Draco’s hips. “We can talk more, if that’s what you need.”

Draco cocked his head, mouth curving into the beginnings of a frown. “No,” he said, sounding vaguely confused. “What you said was perfect. I – I just –” He trailed his hands absently over Harry’s shoulders. A moment later, his expression cleared. “Will you keep saying it? Not – not right now, I mean. Just – tell me again, sometime?”

“Whenever you need,” Harry murmured, kissing him chastely on the lips. “I’ll tell you over and over, until you believe it.”

Draco cradled Harry’s head in his hands. “Thank you,” he whispered, relief spilling over the quiet lust that had darkened his eyes.

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

Harry gnawed at the inside of his cheek, but then he braced himself and just said it. “Will you keep telling me I don’t have to be an auror?”

The corner of Draco’s mouth quirked up. “Every bloody day,” he promised. His smile shifted into something sheepish. “I may have already acquired the Hogwarts teaching fellowship paperwork. From the Headmistress. It’s on the desk in your old bedroom –” he bit his lip, then rushed to say - “only if you want it, of course.” 

A delighted laugh bubbled out of Harry, taking him by surprise. “I don’t know if I do,” he said slowly. A giddy kind of lightness rushed through his veins, as if his blood had been replaced by champagne. “But I think I really really needed to hear you say that.”

Harry laughed again, marveling at the man in front of him. Draco’s hair was tousled, and a hint of genuine pleasure softened the tired lines around his eyes. 

Harry squeezed Draco’s hips. “I love you,” he told him, feeling his eyes grow wet with emotion. His fingers trailed over Draco’s belt. “Is this ok?” he asked again.

“Yes,” Draco cried, tugging at Harry’s shirt impatiently. “Potter,” he mumbled, as Harry’s mouth descended roughly over his.

They crashed together, tossing clothes haphazardly to the floor, until they tumbled onto their sides, skin to skin and everywhere slick and hot and gleaming. 

Harry gasped and trembled, already far too close. Draco’s mouth was on his neck and Draco’s hands were bruising his hips and Draco’s cock slid against his oh so sweetly, and Harry was drowning in silver skin and moonbeam eyes.

Draco dipped his head and suddenly his tongue was teasing Harry’s collarbone, and Harry succumbed to the pleasure. He threw his head back and moaned shamelessly, letting himself be swept out to sea. 

They rutted against each other in frantic thrusts, Harry’s hands sweeping down Draco’s back until they reached his arse. He pulled Draco into him, squeezing and kneading those perfect globes as Draco shuddered and keened and licked Harry’s throat in encouragement.

And then Draco flopped away from Harry to lie flat on the bed. Harry moved to follow him, wanting – no, needing – to stretch his body out on top of Draco’s, to feel every inch of him pressed beneath. But Draco stopped him with a hand to his chest.

Harry whined, hips jerking involuntarily, his leaking cock smearing wetness across Draco’s hip. Even panting for breath, Draco managed to chuckle softly. He looked too beautiful to be real, stretched out and bathed in light from their enchanted ceiling. When they first worked on the cottage, Draco had told Harry he'd always fancied sleeping under the stars.

Harry’s hips stilled, eyes drinking in this pristine, ethereal being that was somehow his. Lean muscles softening the hard lines of him, kiss-swollen lips and sharp cheekbones, the faintest trail of hair winding toward his slightly angled, beautifully flushed cock.

Draco smiled lazily, and it was almost a smirk, so close to the boy he used to be that Harry grew dizzy in the face of how far they had come.

A coy look flashed across Draco’s face and he slipped two fingers into Harry’s mouth. Harry moaned around them, sucking desperately as Draco teased his fingers in and out, in and out.

And then,

_oh_ and then,

Draco bent one leg, planted his foot against the mattress, and let his knee fall to the side. Staring directly into Harry’s eyes, he stroked his wet fingers down his own thigh and pressed them against his arsehole.

Harry nearly stopped breathing.

“I want you inside me when you come,” Draco whispered. “I need to feel you –” his eyes flickered, suddenly uncertain - “if – if that’s alright.”

Harry’s cock throbbed.

He rolled onto his back and clamped a desperate hand around the base as an obscene amount of pre-come dribbled from his slit.

“Potter?” Draco hovered over him, an adorable waver to his voice.

“Yes,” Harry chanted. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

He lunged forward and kissed Draco violently. They collapsed back onto the bed, where Harry struggled to kiss Draco breathless, stave off his impending orgasm, and watch Draco’s fingers disappear inside his own arse, all at the same time.

“Oh Merlin, oh _Draco,”_ Harry moaned. “I – I’ve never – have you – have you done this before?”

“N-no,” Draco panted. “Not with another person. Only my – my fingers or – or sometimes a toy.”

Something in Harry’s brain shattered. “ _Fuck_ , Draco. I’m never going to last.”

“S’ok, just wanna feel you,” Draco murmured, running a soothing thumb across Harry’s brow. He was touching Harry’s scar again, and that, combined with hearing Draco’s posh voice actually _slurred_ from pleasure, shot a jolt straight to Harry’s cock. 

He dropped his head against Draco’s shoulder with a sob.

Harry was so in love, so entirely overwhelmed by the whirlwind of discovery and memory, by the grief and pain and joy that this night had somehow held.

And suddenly, pure physical _need_ unfurled inside him, and he understood exactly what Draco wanted – to leave no space between them, to join their bodies as intimately as they had their hearts and souls.

There was an awkward bit, when Draco signaled he was ready by wandlessly conjuring some lube. Harry tried to clamber atop him and their legs tangled oddly and feet were in weird places and everything was wet and sticky, and for one fraught moment, Harry thought he had kneed Draco right in the balls. Harry yelped, flooded with panic, but then Draco was giggling, such an unexpectedly joyful sound that Harry wanted to bottle it, and then Harry was giggling too, and everything was alright again.

And then Draco was splayed beneath Harry, eyes soft and certain and offering him _everything._

Propped on his elbows, Harry kissed Draco tenderly, sliding his slicked cock between Draco’s arsecheeks. Draco hid his face in his elbow and let out a long, desperate moan. A pink flush had spread prettily across his cheekbones and down to his chest. He looked disheveled and sweaty and thoroughly debauched. Harry kissed along his jawline as he pressed the tip of his cock to Draco’s hole.

Draco hissed and bucked against him, but Harry hesitated. He breathed in shakily, suddenly nervous, inexplicably shy.

Draco cracked one eye open, peering up at Harry. His mouth softened into a crooked smile.

“Scared, Potter?” he asked, but the words sounded like love, just another way for Draco to tell him _I’ve got you._

“You wish,” Harry whispered, and he slowly pushed into Draco.

It was impossibly tight, warm and wet and – _oh Merlin_ – so _good._ He was _inside_ Draco and he could feel Draco’s muscles _squeezing_ him and it was all so new and perfect and scary that for a moment, Harry could hardly bear to move.

But then Draco wrapped his legs around Harry and angled his arse up, straining toward him, and Harry slid even deeper into that velvety bliss. He gasped and struggled to hold his hips still. The heat was building in his groin, and his balls ached with a fierce, undeniable need, but none of that mattered, because Harry needed to take care of Draco.

“Ok?” Harry asked, smoothing his hands over Draco’s flanks. “Am I hurting you?” 

Draco looked up at him, tears in the corner of his eyes. A muscle jumped in his stomach and his legs were beginning to tremble. “No,” he breathed out. “It’s just – so much. You feel so _good_ , Potter.”

“Can I –” Harry asked, voice shaking. “Can I move?”

“Yes, yes, _please,”_ Draco cried. “Fuck me, Potter.”

Harry’s hips snapped forward, driving his cock mercilessly into Draco. He did it again, and again, and again, rhythm erratic, helpless under the sudden onslaught of sensation. Draco whimpered and shuddered and pleaded, until Harry lifted one of Draco’s legs over his shoulder. The angle shifted, Harry pushed deeper, and then Draco screamed.

“Potter,” he practically howled, “yes, _there_ , fuck me right there.” 

And Harry lost it, every last tenuous inch of control. He’d been on edge since they started, and he’d kept such a tight grip on himself that he’d trapped his magic just as surely as he had his balls. 

But now he let it all go. Harry slammed into Draco, mindless with lust and love and need, and as his orgasm built, his magic poured from him, spilling out every pore to dance and twirl and melt into Draco’s.

Harry had felt their magics touch before, had even felt Draco’s magic fill his body until he wasn’t certain where Draco ended and he began. But that was nothing compared to this.

This was not touching; this was _becoming_ – their magics melding together into something new, something more powerful than either of them could ever be alone. 

Harry’s magic crackled through the room like lightning, swallowing Draco’s fizzles until it all flared up around them, burning as bright and beautiful as a sparkler against the night sky. Harry breathed it in, and the air tasted of flowers and starlight, of dueling and flying and arguing and brewing, of Harry and Draco, together.

Harry brought a hand to Draco’s cock and began to wank him in time with his thrusts. Draco caught Harry’s other hand and pressed it to his heart. 

Draco arched his back, groaning, and as he spilled over Harry’s hand, their magic sparked off every corner of the room. The light reached the ceiling, and Harry could swear that every star in their magicked sky began to shimmer. Draco’s arse clenched and with one full-body shudder, Harry emptied himself inside of him.

Entirely spent, Harry collapsed on top of Draco, who let out a muffled grunt, but wrapped his arms around Harry before he could apologize and roll away. They stayed that way for a long time, just listening to each other breathe. Eventually, they dozed off, still curled into each other.

Harry woke, warm and dry, with his head on Draco’s chest. Draco was staring up at their ceiling sky, fingers trailing gently over Harry’s spine. Harry snuggled closer and kissed Draco’s cheek.

Draco smiled. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed in contentment.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Draco asked.

“‘Course,” Harry said, moving to sit up against the pillows.

Draco followed, propping himself beside Harry. His eyes were hooded, expression grave, and Harry felt a flicker of apprehension. 

“I need to apologize,” Draco said, “for everything I did to you when we were younger.”

“What?” Startled, Harry took Draco’s hand. “But we’re past all that.” 

“No,” Draco said. “I was _horrible_ to you. And when we came back this year, I didn’t want to say I was sorry, because words are empty. I wanted to _show_ you I was different. But this is too important. You’re too important. And I don’t want anything to be left unsaid between us.”

“Draco, I gave as good as I got. I did terrible things to you too.” Harry’s fingers skimmed across the marks on Draco’s chest.

Draco shook his head. “What I did was different.”

“No –”

“Yes, it was,” Draco insisted. “Because if I hadn’t been cruel to you, you wouldn’t have been cruel to me. You might even have been kind.” His mouth tightened. “But I still would have wanted to hurt you.”

That wasn’t unexpected, exactly. Harry had known that, definitively, about past Draco, but his heart drooped a little all the same. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I was jealous,” Draco admitted. He smiled wryly. “And because you didn’t want to be my friend.”

Harry slipped a hand into Draco’s hair. “I wish I had known.”

Draco bowed his head. “No. I didn’t deserve your friendship. I was spoiled and bigoted – a stupid, cowardly bully.” He paused, then straightened and met Harry’s eyes. “What I did to you was wrong. I am so sorry, Harry.”

Harry leaned forward and kissed him.

Draco melted into him, but then he broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Harry’s. “I love you, Harry. With all my heart. And I’m still not sure I deserve you, even now.” He took a deep breath. “But I need you to know - I intend to do everything in my power to earn your respect and your forgiveness.”

Harry pressed Draco’s palm against his heart, feeling tears prick at his eyes. “Oh, Draco – oh, my love – you already have. I promise you, you already have.”

“Harry,” Draco whispered, hiding his face against Harry’s neck.

Harry held him, stroking his back softly and murmuring forgiveness. 

Below them, the flowers in Draco’s cauldrons shed the last of their petals, and in the early dawn light, the potions began to glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief descriptions of self-harm scars and discussion of a past suicide attempt.


	18. a debt much preferred

Harry woke to the comforting scent of sun-warmed earth and ripe citrus. He nuzzled closer, inhaling deeply. _Draco._

He scrunched his nose as silken strands of hair tickled it, and tried to ward off a sneeze. Blinking himself more fully awake, he found Draco nestled in his arms. Harry lifted his head from where it had been tucked against the back of Draco’s neck and shielded his eyes from the sudden onslaught of sunlight.

The golden rays were rather disconcerting, streaming in as they were beneath the blue-black sky of enchanted stars. Harry supposed that he and Draco hadn’t really thought this bedroom design through. Floor to ceiling windows really only complemented a midnight sky at… well, mid-night.

But then he looked down at Draco – and once he regained the ability to breathe, he took a moment to thank the universe for past Harry and Draco’s lack of forethought.

Still naked, skin gleaming against the smoky grey sheets of the bed, Draco had never looked more beautiful. Sunlight filtered in, bathing him in the amber tones of day, but the silver colors of night had likewise claimed him. 

Draco’s body was alive with contradiction, dappled in a strange mix of cheerful yellows and seductive moonlight. Outside, tree branches swayed in the breeze, fracturing the sunlight. Shifting hues swirled across Draco’s skin, as if he were lying at the bottom of a clear pool. His hair shone alluringly, almost pearlescent in the strange light. It was pricked with gold at the edges, a treasure to tempt men down to the watery depths.

And so, down Harry went.

He pressed a mischievous smile into Draco’s nape and ghosted his hand along Draco’s spine, following the path of his fingers with light kisses. Draco hummed a contented little sigh, but did not otherwise stir. 

Harry trailed his tongue over Draco’s hip, slowly easing him onto his back. He crawled between Draco’s legs and began to massage his thighs. Dropping his head, Harry teased Draco’s half-hard cock with the warmth of his breath.

When Draco’s eyes flicked open not a minute later, Harry peered up at him, giving him a smoldering look from beneath his eyelashes. He licked Draco once, a long line from root to tip.

Harry heard Draco’s breath hitch. He brought his hands to cradle Draco’s arse, running his thumbs over his hip bones. The touch was as soothing as it was provocative, and though Draco bit his lip and flushed prettily, he also relaxed, muscles surrendering to Harry’s ministrations.

“Morning, darling,” Harry purred. “Do you want to come in my mouth?”

Draco gasped, and his hips jerked. He tilted his head back, exposing the pale white of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, struggling to form words.

“Hmm?” Harry breathed, mouthing at Draco’s balls. “I didn’t quite catch that, darling. I want to suck you. Can I?”

The bedsheets rumpled under Draco’s grasping fingers. “Potter –”

Harry raised his head. “Draco – no.”

“No?” Draco repeated. He blinked down at Harry, expression desperate and confused.

“Draco,” Harry whispered reverently. He stared into Draco’s eyes and blew another teasing breath over the wetness gathering at the tip of his cock.

“Oh –” Draco squirmed a little and his blush deepened. He threw up an arm to cover his eyes. “H-Harry,” he stammered, barely audible.

“Yes?” Harry asked, letting his lips brush against Draco’s foreskin. “What is it, darling?” 

Draco didn’t emerge from beneath his arm, but his voice was stronger this time. “Harry, oh Harry – your _mouth._ Suck me – suck me, Harry, _please._ ”

Though Draco had said Harry’s name the night before, it had been in the throes of regret and apology. Hearing it now, spoken in the light of morning and suffused with want, filled Harry with a boundless joy. The syllables seemed to bloom from Draco, coloring the air with bright bursts of shimmering possibility.

“Draco,” Harry sighed, a touch of wonder in his voice.

He breathed Draco in, burying his nose in his pubic hair, before kissing his way up his shaft. When he reached the head, Harry wrapped his lips around it, tonguing at Draco’s slit as he sucked.

Draco let out a strangled sound and his hips bucked once before he managed to still himself. Harry moaned at the sensation of Draco’s prick forcing itself deeper, the thick firmness of it dragging against his tongue.

Bracing himself with an elbow against the bed, Harry took more of Draco, sinking down until Draco’s cock was nudging the roof of his mouth, dangerously close to his throat. Harry moaned again, the vibration making Draco’s stomach muscles clench and jump.

Harry pulled back, not quite ready to invite Draco into his throat. The idea of it tantalized Harry – Draco’s cock so deep it threatened Harry’s breath, the taste of him covering every inch of Harry’s tongue – but it scared him too. He wasn’t sure he would be good at it right away, and he so wanted this to be good for Draco. Wanted to give Draco something of himself to hold onto as he brewed.

Swirling his tongue, Harry slid his mouth up Draco’s cock to lavish attention on his glans. He sucked and kissed and licked at the sensitive spot until Draco was a whimpering mess above him, practically sobbing into the arm that still covered his face.

After a few minutes of the sweet torture, Harry released Draco with a wet pop.

“Draco,” he coaxed, voice warm and comforting. “You’re so beautiful, love. Let me see your face?”

Draco trembled and slowly lowered his arm. Pupils blown wide, irises the color of a storm-tossed sea, he fixed his gaze on Harry. Without breaking eye contact, Harry brought his hand to Draco’s cock and began to pump. Draco’s eyes fluttered closed then, so Harry lowered his head and enveloped him once more in his mouth. 

Harry sucked Draco in earnest now, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head to meet the hand that was stroking the base. Draco moaned wantonly and Harry felt a light tug as Draco tangled his fingers into his hair.

Draco tensed and snatched his hands away, gasping out an apology. Harry reached up and caught his hand. Squeezing reassuringly, he placed Draco’s hand back on his head. Draco skimmed a thumb across Harry’s temple, then hesitantly slid his palm over the mussed black tresses. Harry hummed in encouragement and continued working his mouth over Draco, taking him a bit deeper with each thrust. 

Draco’s cock was leaking profusely, the heated skin slick with saliva and pre-come. Over the salt and slight bitterness, Harry’s tongue caught a trace of something that was distinctly Draco. Aroused as he was, Harry couldn’t quite make sense of it, but Draco tasted like his potions felt – tendrils of fizzling energy, vibrant and sparkling, lighting up Harry’s taste buds in a salacious dance.

Harry’s rhythm faltered and he rutted against the bed, losing control of himself for a moment as his magic spilled free. It twined around Draco, and suddenly Harry was awash in memory, overwhelmed by how joined the two of them had been only a few hours before. He moved his hand to Draco’s balls, squeezing them gently before running a finger down Draco’s crease.

Draco cried out, and Harry’s scalp pulsed as Draco’s fingers yanked at his hair. Harry sucked Draco harder, relishing the bright flash of pain, like a physical tether to the depth of Draco’s want.

Harry pressed lightly against Draco’s hole and his finger slipped in easily. He moved it slowly, in and out, his own cock throbbing desperately at the feel of Draco’s arse clenching around him. 

And then Draco threw back his head with a long, helpless whine and spilled into Harry’s mouth. 

Harry swallowed what he could, continuing to suck gently until Draco tugged him off. Harry smiled up at Draco’s sweaty face, his mouth hanging open blissfully and hair wild against the pillows. He lay boneless on the bed, panting, as Harry licked him clean.

With a final kiss to the tip of Draco’s spent cock, Harry slithered up the bed and snuggled against Draco’s side.

“Harry,” Draco mumbled, before rolling into him and capturing his lips in a desperate kiss.

Harry hummed against Draco’s mouth, but when Draco wriggled a hand between them, seeking Harry’s erection, Harry pulled away.

“I’m alright,” he murmured. “I know you have to get back to the potion. That was for you.”

He gave Draco one more lingering kiss, then hoisted himself out of bed and started to pull on his clothes. 

Draco stretched against the sheets, distracting Harry momentarily with his straining calf muscles and the elegant arch of his spine, then clambered out of bed as well. Harry noted, a bit smugly, that Draco wasn’t entirely steady on his feet.

“I need a shower,” Draco observed a bit helplessly, bracing himself against the bed.

Harry chuckled as he buttoned his trousers. “Then go take one, darling. I’ll bring you some breakfast.”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “But we never finished the bathroom.”

“So?” Harry smirked at him. “You’re _immune,_ remember?” He scrounged around the floor until he found his wand, then offered it to Draco. “Use a sustained _Aguamenti_ on the pipes. I’ll fix it up for real when I get back, while you’re working on the potion.”

Draco blinked at him slowly, but accepted the wand. He looked down at it for a long moment before scowling at Harry. “You have no business being this clever at such an unseemly hour of the morning, Potter.”

Harry laughed and kissed him on the cheek. Looking somewhat mollified, Draco pulled on his pants and followed Harry down the ladder. Harry had almost reached the door when Draco called after him.

“Harry?”

Harry’s heart swooped, fluttering happily in his chest as he turned back to Draco. “Yeah?”

“Will you go to the hospital wing?” Draco asked softly. “Make sure they’re still stable?” He ducked his head, eyes downcast and unsure.

Harry padded back to the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Draco in a comforting hug. “Of course I will.”

***

Harry and Draco sat back-to-back on the floor of their cottage, Draco muttering to himself as he brewed and Harry with his wand trained on the bathroom.

If Harry was being honest, he’d have to admit that they probably didn’t need to be touching. The hooks were so averse to Draco that Harry’s spells should be safe as long as the two of them were in the same room. But Harry liked being so close to Draco, leaning together as if they were holding each other up.

Harry had returned from the castle a few hours ago. After visiting the hospital wing and updating McGonagall on their progress, he had indulged himself with a quick wash (and wank) in the Gryffindor showers before procuring breakfast.

Over eggs and sausages, he assured Draco that there had been no change in Luna, Neville, Hannah, or Blaise. Madam Pomphrey and Healer Tahlyn were closely monitoring their magical cores and were confident that all four patients would remain stable.

When they’d finished eating, Harry had helped Draco chop and crush additional ingredients for the potions. Draco was attempting four different versions, testing a variety of ways to prepare the solution to best handle blood absorption. If he was successful, at least one of the potions would have the ability to saturate a person with the protective essence of the brewed flowers, while also forging a blood tie between them and the living flowers around the castle. In theory, this should provide them with extended protection against the threat of Voldemort’s manufactured residue.

They had quickly reached the finicky stage of the brewing. Even with Draco’s guidance, Harry would be more hindrance than help now, so he was focusing instead on renovating their bathroom. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt so compelled to finish the cottage, but leaving it undone seemed wrong.

It had taken him some time to remember the charms and Transfiguration spells they had learned all those weeks ago, but after a bit of trial and error he’d gotten the hang of it again. It was a physical kind of magic, which Harry always excelled at, and the professor had allowed them to learn by doing, so he had retained quite a bit.

Once he’d magically expanded the space and hooked the pipes into Hogwarts’ underground water source, Harry turned his attention to the décor. He amused himself for a while with truly awful color combinations, spelling the walls and fixtures in increasingly garish patterns, just to get under Draco’s skin. Draco winced dramatically every time he looked over his shoulder, but managed to hold his tongue, clearly too stubborn to rise to Harry’s bait.

Eventually, Harry settled on a color scheme of lush greens and blues. He used smooth river stones in place of tiles and transfigured the shower to resemble a waterfall. With a tricky bit of magic, he installed a permanent warming charm, then finished off the room by adding a series of enchanted bubble bath taps and spelling the towels to be self-drying and perpetually fluffy.

Quite satisfied with himself, Harry cast around for something else to do, but came up empty. The cottage was as home-like as he could possibly imagine. He sighed dreamily and relaxed back against Draco.

Some time later, Harry roused himself from where he had dozed off against Draco’s shoulder. A bit blearily, he stumbled into the bathroom and washed his face. Through the window, he could just make out the Quidditch stands, where the flowers were still growing, twinkling merrily in the sunlight. Harry looked back over at Draco and frowned.

“Draco?” he asked, crossing the kitchen and sitting down beside him.

“Just a moment, Harry.” Draco stirred one of the potions with sure, quick strokes, counting aloud as he went. With his other hand, he sprinkled something glittery into a different cauldron. When he reached the number twenty-five, he waved a hand to adjust the height of the flames. Three of the cauldrons simultaneously erupted in bubbles, while the other emitted an odd chirping sound. These results apparently satisfied Draco, because he scooted away from his concoctions and turned to face Harry fully. “Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?” Harry said.

“Of course.”

“Do you remember when I figured out that the evil stuff was separate from the flowers?”

Draco nodded and waited for Harry to continue.

“You were so relieved –” Harry trailed off, worried he was about to force Draco to relive something painful.

“Yes, well –” Draco blushed, huffing out an embarrassed breath. “They were beautiful, and fascinating. I suppose I didn’t like the idea of them being Dark.”

“But didn’t you know they weren’t?” Harry asked. He bit his lip, then continued hesitantly. “They _saved_ you.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Draco agreed. His expression grew distant, and when he spoke, his words were measured and slow. “I don’t think you quite understand how bad it was, the first time you accessed the residue. I have seen you face down fire and torture and the Dark – and Voldemort himself. And yet, you’ve never looked so shaken as that day in the courtyard.” Draco’s eyes snapped back to Harry’s. “It scared me, Harry. I thought I must have misinterpreted what had happened to me. Perhaps the flowers hadn’t saved me at all, perhaps they had even helped drive me to it – breeding darkness, compounding my despair until it was all I could see. And if that was the case, I worried what havoc they might wreak at Hogwarts.”

“But then –” Harry cocked his head, considering. “What did you think healed you?”

Draco shrugged lightly, but Harry saw his fingers tense where he was gripping his knees. “The Manor, perhaps? It seemed plausible that there were protective charms meant to safeguard the Malfoy heir.” Draco’s voice grew clipped then, his tone full of bitterness. “I hated even thinking it. I do not want to be indebted to the Manor, or the Malfoy name. I much prefer being grateful to the flowers.”

“Draco, you said –” Harry’s eyes flicked to the scars on Draco’s arms, visible for once, dressed as he was in one of Harry’s old t-shirts. Draco shifted uncomfortably and Harry forced himself to look away. Swallowing hard, he finished the thought - “you said you hated the flowers for saving you.”

Draco sighed softly. “I did.”

Harry wondered if he should let it go, but Draco’s face was open and he hadn’t made any attempt to end the conversation. 

“In the courtyard that night, during the Ball –” Harry paused as the memory sparked in his mind. _Draco, strange and alluring in that purple waistcoat, eyes on fire and surrounded by color._ “The way you were looking at the flowers, it was like you were –” Harry faltered, not sure he could explain. He gestured helplessly between them, waggling his fingers as if he could snatch the right words from the air. “It lit you up,” he said finally, “like you had never seen anything so wonderful.”

“Well,” Draco breathed, tugging at his collar before folding his hands back into his lap. “I had learned to be thankful by then. To want the second chance at life I had so unexpectedly been granted.”

Harry remembered then, what it had been like watching Draco those first few weeks of school. He’d kept to himself, seeming almost fearful of the other eighth years, but he’d also been – settled. At peace with himself and his future in a way that Harry had envied, even if he hadn’t understood it at the time.

“What changed?” he asked quietly.

“Everything, really. You won the war.” Draco reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. His hand lingered, and he stroked Harry’s cheek. After a moment, Draco dropped his hand and shook his head in amazement. “Against all odds, my mother and I were safe. Free. I’d even had the opportunity to do some good. I spent the summer helping to reconstruct the villages surrounding the Manor, working with half-bloods and muggle-borns, and even some muggles, to fix the things Voldemort had broken. And then the Headmistress invited me back to Hogwarts and I knew I’d get to study Potions again. It was everything I ever wanted, more than I ever could have hoped for.”

Draco looked down at his cauldrons, fingers skimming lovingly over a ladle.

“The night of the Ball,” he went on, “I had only meant to sit with the flowers. I was delighted to discover them in the garden. I hadn’t thought I’d ever see their like again. I wanted to take a moment with them, to appreciate everything I had been given, to promise the flowers and myself that I would not squander it. But the garden was so potently magical, I couldn’t help myself.” He smiled sheepishly. “I got curious.”

“Thank Merlin,” Harry said, taking his hand. “When I saw you do that spell – the look in your eyes, it felt like I could see your soul, like I finally understood everything you could be, and something just clicked.” He brought his mouth to Draco’s ear in an intimate whisper. “I think I fell in love with you that night.”

“Harry –” Draco breathed.

They leaned into each other and kissed, eyelashes fluttering against each other’s skin. 

All too soon, Draco broke away, shuffling sideways to add a tiny dragon scale to a cauldron.

Harry maneuvered to sit behind Draco and pulled him into his chest. Draco leaned against him as he continued to work. 

“Draco?” Harry asked.

“Hmm?”

Harry propped his chin on Draco’s shoulder and stroked his arms soothingly. “What happened when you went to Azkaban? What did your father do?”

Draco tensed, but then he shook his head and laughed bitterly. “Nothing. He didn’t speak, didn’t react to me at all. Just stared blankly ahead like a living corpse.” He sighed and rested his head against Harry’s. “I’ll never know if he was intentionally disavowing me or if his mind broke and he’s just – gone. I don’t even know which would be worse.”

“Oh, my love.” Harry kissed his temple and rubbed their cheeks together. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Draco blinked back the beginnings of tears. His expression hardened as he placed his arms over Harry’s where they were hugging his waist. “Lucius Malfoy made his choices. And he has no claim on me, not anymore.”

Harry squeezed him a little tighter. “I love you,” he told him, kissing him tenderly.

Draco smiled against Harry’s lips before turning his attention back to his potions.

***

Harry knew something had changed the moment he and Draco rounded the corner to approach the hospital wing. The door was not only shut, but firmly locked, and muffled thumps and shouts echoed from behind it.

Suddenly fearful, Harry cast a quick _Alohomora._ The lock shuddered without opening, which only increased Harry’s alarm. If the door was warded, then something very wrong must be happening inside.

Clutching the box of potion vials to his chest, Draco pounded on the door. When no answer came, he began to shout for the Headmistress, begging her to let them in.

The door opened a crack and Madam Pomfrey stuck her head out.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy,” she huffed, looking quite frazzled. Her hair was sticking out at odd angles from beneath her bonnet and there appeared to be ash on her cheeks. “I am afraid this isn’t the best time for visitors.”

“What’s happening?” Harry cried. Draco spoke over him, demanding to see the Headmistress.

Before Madam Pomfrey could reply, a high shriek sounded from behind her. It cut off abruptly as a blinding flash of violet light lit up what they could see of the room.

In the ensuing silence, McGonagall’s voice washed over them, brittle as old parchment. “Stand aside please, Poppy. Let them in.”

Draco pushed past. As Harry followed, he saw that his injured classmates were tossing and writhing on their beds, though their faces were eerily blank. Shocked, Harry gasped and skidded to a halt, looking frantically about the room. He had been here just yesterday, had visited on each of the four days Draco had spent brewing the cure, and every time, the patients had been calm and still. 

Draco was already at Luna’s side, combing his fingers through her hair and holding a cloth to her brow. His eyes were darting helplessly from Blaise to Neville to Hannah, as if desperately seeking a way to comfort them all.

McGonagall was in the corner, engaged in an animated dialogue with Tahlyn. The Healer looked exhausted. Her normally rich brown skin was dull and lifeless, and the circles beneath her eyes stood out like bruises. Clutching the wrist of her wand-arm, she seemed to be keeping pace with McGonagall’s rapid-fire queries, but she winced with every slight movement she attempted.

Harry closed his eyes and sent a wave of magic over the prone forms of his classmates. Prodding intently, he sought out the residue and immediately recoiled. Frozen no longer, the hooks were wriggling, digging their way into their victims’ cores.

“Professor!” he shouted. “The hooks –” 

“I’m aware, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall cut in wearily. “We’re doing everything we can.”

With that, Tahlyn strode across the room, leveling her wand at the beds. Draco hurried out of the way as a pale glow enveloped the jerking bodies. Tahlyn’s wand darted and swooped as if she were dueling, but despite the constant motion, her spell held steady.

“The residue is counteracting her healing spells,” McGonagall explained in a hushed tone. “It worked its way free of the stasis this morning. Thus far, she has managed to slow its spread, but she must constantly re-cast as the hooks twist her spells.”

“Headmistress,” Draco interjected urgently. “I have an antidote.” 

McGonagall’s eyes widened. “You finished a potion?” she cried. “When?”

“Just now,” said Draco. “We came as soon as it cooled. All it needs is a drop of their blood.”

“Their blood?” McGonagall repeated, pressing a hand to her chest. Her expression was drawn, almost fearful.

Draco fiddled with his cuffs and nodded, looking suddenly uncertain. He hurriedly fetched the box from the table by Luna’s bed and held a vial out to McGonagall. “It creates a bond – to the protective essence of the flowers.”

There was a long pause. McGonagall did not take the vial.

Light flared up again and they heard Tahlyn curse. Blaise Zabini’s back arched unnaturally, raising him off the bed. A crack sounded and blood gushed from his nose. Madam Pomfrey rushed over and began to cast beside Tahlyn. 

Draco tore his eyes from Blaise and thrust the vial into McGonagall’s hand. “Headmistress, please!”

McGonagall stared into the murky depths of Draco’s potion. “This potion is entirely untested, Mr. Malfoy. I cannot sanction its use without –”

“You asked me to make it!” Draco yelled.

Neville’s eyes snapped open. He groaned as his body began to thrash more violently. At the same moment, Hannah shuddered, then fell entirely still.

McGonagall drew her wand, but clearly did not know how to help. She looked desperately between Tahlyn and Draco. “I thought we’d have more time!” Her voice was rough, anguish written across every tense line of her body. “I’ll send for Horace. Perhaps he can –” 

“The kind of testing you’re asking for takes too long, Headmistress!”

Under Draco’s words, an unpleasant sound began to build, one that Harry felt more than heard. A grating buzz, it vibrated through the air, like splinters being shoved beneath his fingernails, a spike in his brain. Instinctively, Harry looked to the flowers.

The blooms were thickest around Luna’s bed, where Draco had placed them the day she collapsed, but the vines had spread over the walls of the hospital wing, coiling through the headboards of all the stricken students. 

As the sound reverberated throughout the room, growing shrill enough to resemble a Banshee’s shriek, the flowers trembled and dropped petals on the bodies beneath them. They seemed to be straining to reach the patients.

Belatedly, Harry realized that Luna’s body was rising from the mattress, her limbs and legs hanging limply as her torso was pulled into the air, suspended like some kind of grotesque puppet. A thick, black substance oozed from her mouth and eyes.

Tahlyn slashed her wand violently and the wailing noise stuttered out. Luna dropped to the bed and stopped moving.

Draco screamed Luna’s name. Tears were streaming from his eyes as he threw himself toward McGonagall. He sounded almost incoherent as he pleaded with her. _“Please,_ Headmistress. I have notes, I did trial batches, I ran the diagnostics and calculated the transference slippage. It was all fine! It’s ready, it’s safe – and I – I have a prior case!”

“Prior case? Mr. Malfoy –”

Letting the words of the argument fade into background noise, Harry drifted toward the flowers. He teased out several strands of his magic, tethering one to Draco.

_“There’s no time to explain it. It was me. My blood. I – I – please, it won’t hurt them, I promise.”_

Harry circled his other strands around the vines – 

_“How certain are you?”_

pushed his magic deep inside – 

_“Positive. I’m positive it won’t hurt them! And – and moderately confident it will disable the residue.”_

found the essence of the flowers, braided his magic into it – 

_“MODERATELY?”_

pulled – 

_“It won’t hurt them, and it – it probably works. But even if it doesn’t, I swear, Headmistress, it’s harmless! I tested for side effects!”_

met resistance and – fought it, a splintering deep inside – 

_“Healer, report!”_

and then, Harry was holding it –

the magic of the flowers. He cradled it reverently, guiding it slowly,

oh so slowly,

towards Luna and Neville, Hannah and Blaise.

He let the magic sink into them.

The hooks shuddered

and Harry pushed harder, almost daring to hope – 

until the icy cold shock flared up again, and Harry lost his grip. He felt the hooks rip and tear and shred through the magic of the flowers. 

Harry wrenched back into himself just in time to hear Tahlyn’s strained voice ring out across the room.

“Holding steady! Not sure how much longer I can –” She cut herself off, whipping her wand in an intricate pattern.

Harry crossed the room, slashing his finger open with _Diffindo_ as he went. Before anyone had time to react, he snatched a vial from the box in Draco’s hand, squeezed a bead of his blood into the potion, and swallowed it in one gulp. He closed his eyes, letting his magic trail after the fizzling sensation that was overtaking his body. He felt like he was sinking into a warm bath, strolling through the sunlight, biting into treacle tart, flying amongst the stars, tasting Draco’s lips.

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall gasped.

Harry’s fingertips tingled. His head cleared and he opened his eyes.

Draco took a shaky step toward him, face drained of all color. Harry grinned widely at him, but turned to face McGonagall, arms spread.

“I’m fine, Professor,” he said. “Check me if you need to.”

McGonagall peered worriedly over at Tahlyn. The Healer did not pause in her casting, but she flicked a hand at McGonagall in a _go ahead_ gesture. “Stable,” she rasped, “for a few more minutes.”

“Poppy,” McGonagall called. She gestured at Harry. “If you would?”

Madam Pomfrey bustled toward them and swept her wand in a wide arc. She made a snatching motion, and glowing blue symbols took shape, hovering over every inch of Harry’s skin. It was like what McGonagall had done to him after they tested the Death Eater wands, but infinitely more complex.

Draco made a pained, impatient noise as Pomfrey lingered over the diagnostic spell, mumbling to herself as she checked and rechecked each piece of information. Finally, she nodded and stepped aside.

“No side effects,” she reported. “The potion is safe.”

Draco shoved the box at McGonagall. “One drop of their blood,” he choked out. “They have to drink the whole vial.”

As soon as the potion was safely in McGonagall’s hands, Draco crashed into Harry, who staggered backward. Struggling to control his sobs, Draco buried his head against Harry’s shoulder and tugged wildly at his own hair.

“Hey,” Harry said, trying to catch Draco’s hands without hurting him. He quickly gave up and settled for rubbing his back. “It’s alright, I’m ok.”

Draco jerked out of his grasp. “How many fucking times, Potter?” he spat. “You _heartless_ fucking _wanker._ If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you myself!” His voice broke.

Draco’s hands roved over Harry’s chest and arms, seeking reassurance that he was safe and whole. “What were you thinking?” he whispered.

Harry shrugged. “You said you were positive.”

Draco let out one last shuddering sob and dropped his head into his hands. This time, when Harry wrapped his arms around him, Draco did not resist.

By the time Harry and Draco emerged from each other, Tahlyn, McGonagall, and Pomfrey had administered the potion to all four patients. They were sleeping calmly, the residue having released them from its grip.

Madam Pomfrey was monitoring them with diagnostic spells while Tahlyn worked to stabilize their cores.

The Healer lowered her wand as Harry and Draco approached. She smiled at them. 

“They’re going to be just fine,” she assured them. “There is extensive damage to their cores, but that we can heal.”

“It worked?” Draco asked in awed disbelief. He edged closer and stared worriedly down at Luna.

“It sure did.” Tahlyn clapped him on the shoulder. “Malfoy, is it?”

Draco nodded and offered her his hand. “Draco.”

Tahlyn shook it enthusiastically. “Draco, then. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have a feeling St. Mungo’s should keep its eye on you.”

Looking extremely flustered, Draco stuttered his thanks.

“Indeed, Mr. Malfoy.” McGonagall slipped smoothly into the conversation. “Hogwarts owes you a great debt. There are many things for us to discuss.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. He shook his head slightly and blinked up at them uncertainly. Harry sidled closer and pressed a surreptitious hand into his lower back. It seemed to help Draco gather himself.

“You should take the potion too, Healer Tahlyn. And you, Headmistress,” he said. “It will prevent the residue from tampering with your spells.”

“We certainly will, Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall.

“I suppose I’ll need to brew more,” Draco said, still sounding a bit dazed.

“How difficult is the process, Mr. Malfoy?” McGonagall asked. “Would it be within the capabilities of our NEWT level Potions students?”

“Yes, I believe so, Headmistress.”

“Excellent.” She clapped her hands together. “I will arrange for you to instruct that class tomorrow. With their help, will you be able to brew enough to supply the whole castle?”

“Of course, Headmistress.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.” McGonagall touched him lightly on the arm. “And you, Mr. Potter,” she added.

With that, she took the remaining vials and escorted Tahlyn and Pomfrey from the room, already in deep discussion about follow-up care for Luna, Neville, Hannah, and Blaise.

Wide-eyed, Draco stared after them, tapping his fingers erratically against his thighs.

“Draco?” a hoarse voice called.

Draco startled, then rushed to Luna’s bedside, Harry close behind. They settled on either side of her, Draco clasping one of her hands. Neville, Hannah, and Blaise were still sleeping peacefully.

“What happened?” Luna asked. Her face was drawn and her cheeks hollow, but Harry was relieved to see that her eyes still had their usual cheerful intensity. Even the flowers paled beside Luna’s ineffable spirit.

“Dark Magic residue infected your core,” Draco explained. “But you’ll be alright now.”

Luna glanced around the room, eyes darting between the bodies in the other beds.

“Will the others heal too?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “Everyone will be alright now. And we’ll be able to use our magic again.”

“That’s wonderful,” Luna said drowsily, eyelids sliding closed.

A few minutes later, she opened her eyes again. Draco stroked a hand across her brow.

“You should rest,” he whispered.

She nodded. “Did you save us, Draco?”

“Well –” he blushed. “Healer Tahlyn did most of it.”

Luna wrinkled her nose at him. “Silly,” she mumbled. “Draco invented a potion, didn’t he, Harry?” she asked, turning to smile warmly at Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “He did.”

“Thank you for the potion, Draco.” She lifted Draco’s hand and kissed it.

“Harry helped,” Draco offered.

“Thank you, Harry,” Luna sighed. She yawned and rolled onto her side, shuffling a bit closer to Draco.

Draco reached for Harry’s hand, squeezing it tightly. He stroked his other hand gently through Luna’s hair. Her breathing slowed, growing deep and even. When it was obvious that Luna was soundly asleep, Draco stood. He leaned over to kiss Luna’s forehead and whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Draco took a moment at Blaise’s side, bowing his head and grasping Blaise’s forearm. He checked in on Neville and Hannah too, then headed for the door.

As they were leaving the hospital wing, Harry plucked a brilliantly purple flower from the blooms clustered along the wall and offered it to Draco. 

Draco looked over at him in surprise, his fingers brushing against Harry’s as he accepted the unexpected token. He breathed in the scent of it and tucked it delicately into his hair. When he took Harry’s hand, his smile was as sweet as the sunrise.


	19. better than curse-breakers

Harry’s stomach growled as he entered the Great Hall, quite late for lunch.

Now that classes had resumed, Draco had taken to spending their lunch hour in the hospital wing visiting Blaise. 

Luna, Neville, and Hannah had been discharged just a few days after Draco’s potion was administered. None were strong enough to use their magic yet, but Tahlyn had cleared them to resume all other activities. Blaise though, was still bedridden. The hooks had managed to burrow fully through his core before he’d been put into stasis, which made his case significantly more serious than the others. He’d been in the hospital wing for a week now, and Tahlyn expected it would be a week more before he fully recovered.

Today, Harry had walked Draco upstairs, deciding it was past time he wish Blaise well in person. He and Harry had never exactly been friendly, but Blaise was important to Draco, and so Harry wanted to make the effort. He’d actually quite enjoyed bantering with the two of them. Blaise had a rather wicked humor, startling in such a well-polished and poised man. But when Blaise had showed signs of tiring, Harry had politely excused himself, knowing the Slytherin would be reluctant to let his guard down so soon in front of Harry.

As he approached the eighth year table, Harry caught sight of Pansy Parkinson sitting alone at one end, reading. He hesitated for only a moment before walking over and plopping down across from her.

She did not look up.

“Alright, Parkinson?” Harry greeted her. 

Without waiting for a reply, he cut himself a thick slice of chicken and ham pie and started to eat. Pansy ignored him, but her silver tipped fingernails began to drum an erratic beat against the table. She caught herself quickly, snatching her hand away and masking the movement by slamming her book shut.

“Did you come for an apology, Potter?” she asked, not deigning to look at him.

“No,” Harry answered honestly. He paused. “Did you want to give me one?”

Her response was airy, but there was something sharp underneath. “Not particularly.”

“Alright then.” Harry nodded agreeably and took another forkful of pie.

Pansy shifted on the bench and adjusted her skirt unnecessarily. Harry’s lack of antagonism seemed to be unnerving her. With a quick glance to see if anyone was listening, she leaned toward him and hissed, “It was months ago, Potter! I was terrified.”

“I know,” Harry said, holding her gaze. “It’s alright.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, heavy eyeliner sharpening the glints of gold in her brown irises. She looked armed, almost dangerous, and it taunted Harry, made him want to draw his wand and fight. But that was an old reflex, one he no longer had patience for, and the urge stuttered out like a spark that refuses to catch.

“So...” Harry said, pushing through the awkward silence, “have you liked any of the workshops we’ve had? Know what you want to study next term?”

“What is this, Potter?”

Harry shrugged and offered her a platter of fried potatoes. “Just making friendly conversation.”

“Sure you are.” Pansy crossed her arms, ignoring the potatoes.

Undaunted, Harry served himself and put the platter down. “I rather like the cooking class we’re doing this week. I’d only ever done it the Muggle way before. I might like to try –”

“This is for Draco, isn’t it?” Pansy cut him off. “I’ve seen him cozying up to your Gryffindor pals. You’re trying to reciprocate.” 

The words were harsh, almost accusatory, but there was calculation there as well, like she was trying to pin Harry down and figure him out. 

Harry didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. 

Pansy wasn’t wrong. 

Draco had been making a concentrated effort with Harry’s friends, now that they weren't in immediate danger from the hooks. The residue was still there, of course, but the protection of Draco’s potion had given them a reprieve, at least for the time being, and life at Hogwarts was slowly trickling back to normal. Though Draco was often with Luna, he’d also found time to sit with Hermione, answering her endless questions about his methods for developing new potions. Under Neville’s watchful eye, he was helping to nurse the rare cacti back to life, and Harry suspected that that arrangement would last long after Neville could manage the spells himself. And yesterday, when Harry had wandered into the common room after a shower, he’d found Draco playing chess with Ron, laughing at something Ron had said and looking entirely at ease.

Harry’s heart glowed at the memory and he sighed dreamily.

Pansy huffed in displeasure. She continued to study Harry, conflict raging in her eyes. She seemed to be weighing her obvious distaste for Harry against the prospect of Draco’s happiness.

Harry let her get on with it and finished his lunch. He wiped his hands on a napkin and stood.

Giving her a casual wave, Harry said, “See you around, Pansy.”

“Get some new t-shirts, Potter,” she snapped abruptly.

Startled, Harry blinked. He sat back down. “What?”

“Deep colors. Jewel tones.” Pansy paused, tapping a finger against her lips.

Harry’s brow wrinkled in confusion and she sighed. 

“Gold, blood red, royal blue,” she listed off impatiently. Then she smirked and shot a pointed look at his eyes. “Emerald green,” she purred suggestively. “Make sure they’re tight. Especially on your biceps.”

Harry grinned crookedly, finally catching on.

Pansy stood and turned to go, but then she looked back at him over her shoulder. “Oh, and Potter?”

Harry stared up at her eagerly. She rested her hands on the table and hovered over him, bringing her mouth close to his ear.

“Sometime, when the two of you are alone – bind his hands with one of your ties. Gryffindor colors.” 

Harry blushed as Pansy winked at him. She snapped her teeth mischievously.

“Thank you, Pansy,” Harry said, and he meant it.

Pansy snorted. “It’s not for you, Potter. It’s about damn time that boy got something he wanted. And if you hurt him? You’ll wish I _had_ handed you over to Voldemort.”

With that, Pansy sauntered away. 

Harry watched her go, rather stunned. Then he laughed aloud. 

That had gone far, far better than he thought it would.

***

When the rest of the eighth years filed out of their final cooking workshop on Friday afternoon, Harry stubbornly stayed behind. Caught in conversation with Luna, Draco had looked back over his shoulder, but Harry waved him on ahead.

Harry had spent far too long experimenting with spice blends for his apple pie, and was only just popping it in the oven when everyone else was finishing up. There’d been a jovial air as everyone competed to steal portions of the best-looking dishes (while carefully avoiding Seamus’ burnt muffins and the strangely greasy looking soup Hermione had abandoned halfway through). The professor had blatantly avoided tasting anyone’s cooking, passed around a few flyers for an owl-post recipe subscription service, and then scurried off without a backward glance.

Harry had considered leaving with the others. The room was smoky and hot, and the odd combination of different food smells was giving him a bit of a headache. There was no academic reason for Harry to finish the pie. And it’s not like there was ever a shortage of desserts at Hogwarts meals. But still –

Even if he hadn’t said as much out loud, Harry had made this pie for Draco.

As he baked, Harry had lost himself in the memory of their first kiss, and that star-touched night had made its way into the pie. Apple filling to recall tart bludgers and the taste of Draco’s lips. The spices, painstakingly chosen, to evoke the warmth of their blood against the chill winds of night. A glaze, lovingly crafted to resemble the sheen of moonlight. And of course, a burst of hidden berries, to tantalize the tongue as surely as those miraculous flowers dazzled the eyes.

This pie was not just for Draco, it was _of Draco._ Harry couldn’t leave it.

Draco had more of a sweet tooth than he ever would admit, and Harry longed to indulge him. All week, he’d been daydreaming of the holidays. It was only mid-November, but their prolonged battle with the hooks had taken its toll. Harry was more than ready to spend a few carefree weeks plying Draco with sugar and seeker games and sex. He didn’t know if Draco would want to spend the school break together, but he hoped. He played with recipes that would tempt Draco’s palate, and he hoped.

And so, while he waited for the pie to finish baking, Harry planned a menu specially for Draco. Gnawing absent-mindedly on a quill, he jotted down a surprisingly long list of supplies he’d need to procure for the kitchen of their cottage. His pulse fluttered, suffusing him with warmth. The idea of cooking for Draco felt like coming home.

Harry’s wand buzzed, startling him out of his oddly domestic fantasy. The minute he opened the oven, he knew the pie was perfect. Golden crisp crust, with the filling just beginning to bubble from the edges. Casting a few cleverly chosen spells, Harry banished the pie to their cottage, ensuring it would stay hot and hidden until he was ready to surprise Draco. He hurried through the washing up and finally left the stuffy classroom.

Harry happened upon Draco rather sooner than he expected, in a long, open-air corridor that overlooked the grounds. A swarm of butterflies fluttered to life in Harry’s stomach. Smiling softly, he made his way to where Draco stood, framed by an enormous arched window. His elbows were resting against the stone ledge as he surveyed the gardens below.

Sidling up to him, Harry kissed his cheek. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“I wasn’t.” Draco smirked at him. “I think I caught a glimpse of McGonagall’s mysterious Unspeakables.”

“Really?” Harry exclaimed, rising up on tiptoes to better peer over the window ledge. 

According to McGonagall, her contacts from the Department of Mysteries had arrived on Monday. She assured Harry and Draco that the partners had taken Draco’s potion and would be handling the elimination of the residue. 

Draco pointed to a patch of flowers near the corner of the castle. Craning his neck uncomfortably, Harry saw a flash of gold almost hidden behind the dense clusters of pink and white blooms there. He squinted and the image resolved into a bushy blond ponytail.

“She was prowling along the perimeter of the castle,” Draco said, “but she crawled into those vines about ten minutes ago. I’m not entirely certain, but I don’t think she’s cast any spells yet.”

“Ok, so…” Harry hopped up onto the ledge and leaned his back against the archway. “Stake out?”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his expression was fond. Then his mouth drooped and he sighed. “You don’t think it’s silly?” He smoothed his fingers over the stone. “Spying like this?”

“'Course not,” said Harry. “I spent most of my time at Hogwarts spying like this.”

Draco chuckled, but sobered quickly. “I feel – shut out, almost,” he admitted. “I know it’s wrong, to feel resentful. The residue is dangerous, and the Headmistress has a responsibility to the school. Of course she needs to defer to the Unspeakables.”

“No, Draco, I get it.” Harry blew out a bemused breath. “I was so afraid when this started, so tired of fighting. But now – it’s like the flowers are ours, you know?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered adamantly.

“We’re the ones who paid attention, who figured it out,” continued Harry. “I figured out the hooks and you figured out the potion, but we didn’t finish it. The flowers are still fighting the residue and we’re – we’re not.”

“I thought I was being selfish,” Draco said, “but if you feel that way too –” he ducked his head, but didn’t quite manage to hide the way his face softened - “ well, you’re the least selfish person I know.”

Harry felt the back of his neck heat. The corner of his mouth crooked up. “I don’t know about _that,”_ he mumbled, rubbing at his nape. He looked up and met Draco’s eyes. “But selfish or not, I still feel like we owe it to the flowers to see this through.”

Draco cocked an eyebrow and grinned. He gracefully hoisted himself onto the ledge and settled against the opposite side of the arch. “Alright then. Stake out.”

Harry beamed at him.

It was quite pleasant, sitting quietly with Draco and looking out over the sculpted grounds of Hogwarts, though there wasn’t much worth spying on. The Unspeakable shifted around enough for them to see that she wasn’t in any type of uniform, just inconspicuous black robes, but there was still no magic that they could discern, even when Harry reached out with Sentiomancy. She appeared to be doing no more than intensely observing the flowers.

The air was cold enough to bite at their exposed skin, so Harry kept them sheltered with warming charms. Every so often, Draco’s foot would brush against Harry’s ankle or calf and he’d have to suppress a happy little shiver.

After about an hour, just when Harry was starting to think mournfully of his apple pie, a gruff voice rang out, echoing up to where Harry and Draco were perched.

“Jaffey?”

“Here,” the Unspeakable called back.

Draco tensed, then scrambled to his knees.

Harry sat up, refocusing on the spot where the Unspeakable was struggling to stand. A tall man with gleaming brown hair strode over the grass toward her, though Harry noted that he made no move to join her in the middle of the shrubbery.

Jaffey fought her way free of the vines as the man asked, “Find anything?”

She shook her head. “Same patterns we picked up before. You?”

“Maybe,” he said with a frown. 

He cast something that made the air in front of them light up with glowing lines and symbols. They bowed their heads over it, pointing at different spots and conferring in terse whispers.

Draco was staring at them raptly, leaning so far out from the ledge that Harry worried he would fall. 

“Harry,” Draco hissed, waving a hand and hitting at Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry said, jumping down from the window and grabbing Draco’s wrist. “I see them. Come down from there now, alright?”

Draco obligingly let Harry drag him to the solid floor of the corridor, but he didn’t take his eyes off Jaffey and her partner.

“Harry,” he breathed, clutching Harry’s forearm tightly. “It’s a _curse-breaker.”_ The word crystalized against Draco’s lips like sugar, sparkling in the intensity of his awe. His mouth had fallen slightly open and there was a dark flush high in his cheeks.

“Draco, what?” Harry laughed lightly, amused despite his confusion.

But then he suddenly remembered Draco’s “adventure novel.” That old favorite of his with the half-naked curse-breakers on the cover. Harry’s heart withered a little, throbbing unhappily. 

His eyes narrowed as they snapped back to this supposed “curse-breaker.” The man was dressed in a sleek blue cloak and excessively tight trousers. He had a burnished wand-holster strapped to his arm that should have looked ridiculous, but somehow only emphasized his bulging muscles. Harry glowered, deciding he absolutely did not trust this suspiciously attractive man or his shiny hair. His hands were flailing about pathetically as he spoke with Jaffey and he was clearly out of his depth. He had no chance of helping Harry and Draco’s flowers.

Draco nudged Harry’s shoulder then, and Harry jumped guiltily. He blushed as he came back to his senses, embarrassed by how quickly his thoughts had spiraled out of control. 

Draco seemed to have recovered himself somewhat. He was smirking at Harry a bit too knowingly. “Are you _jealous_ , Potter?”

Harry stumbled back a step, averting his eyes. “What? No!”

Draco shifted closer, trailing his fingers teasingly along Harry’s shoulders as he crossed behind him. He pressed himself fully against Harry’s back. 

“Good,” he murmured into Harry’s ear. The warm rush of his breath made Harry’s knees go wobbly. Draco steadied him with an arm around his chest. “Your cock is better than the sexy curse-breakers, remember?” he whispered, nuzzling and biting at Harry’s neck.

Harry whimpered, then whirled in Draco’s arms and pushed him against the wall. 

By the time they untangled from each other, Jaffey and the curse-breaker were long gone.

***

Draco moaned around a bulging mouthful of Harry’s pie. Sprawled on the rug in front of their cottage fireplace, head tipped back in pleasure, he looked almost as deliciously indecent as when he’d dropped to his knees in the corridor earlier. His eyes had burned intensely into Harry’s as he undid his trousers and drew him slowly into his warm, wet, perfect mouth. One touch of those lips, and Draco had immolated Harry’s petty jealousies, the only remnants as insubstantial as smoke.

“Harry,” Draco mumbled, taking another massive bite. “So good.”

Harry laughed in delight. He kissed Draco, stealing the taste from his tongue. Cinnamon and the subtle tang of raspberry danced between them, and Harry saw a flash of the night sky in Draco’s eyes. His stomach swooped with the memories of flying and falling and that first desperate kiss.

Harry crawled behind Draco and pulled him into his chest, propping himself against the side of the sofa. Draco sighed happily as he settled more comfortably between Harry’s legs. He rested his cheek against Harry’s and continued to devour the pie. Between his own bites, Draco fed forkfuls to Harry, following each with a sticky kiss.

The fire was crackling away merrily, and by the time Draco pushed the (nearly empty) pie plate away, groaning that he could not possibly eat another bite, Harry was feeling warm and full and blissfully content. Draco’s limbs were draped across him, and they somehow seemed to be the only thing keeping Harry from floating entirely away. _Draco,_ Harry’s comforting anchor, tethering him always to safety and to _home._

Before Harry could fall too far into his reverie, Draco twisted in his arms and rubbed their noses together. It tickled, and Harry squirmed slightly, starting to laugh when Draco wouldn’t let him pull away.

“Thank you,” he said, pressing a kiss to Harry’s nose. “That was delicious.” A kiss to his brow, and one to his temple. “You’re an incredible baker.” A kiss to his cheek. Draco smiled impishly and whispered in Harry’s ear, “Your pie is better than the sexy curse-breakers too.”

Harry smirked at him. “Oh really?” he purred against Draco’s skin, tracing his tongue down to the hollow of his throat.

As Draco sucked in a startled breath, Harry tackled him, pushing him down onto the plush rug. On all fours above him, Harry smoldered down at Draco. “You know, darling, I’ve been thinking.”

Draco gulped, the shadows from the fire playing over his face. “How novel for you,” he retorted breathily. Harry could tell he’d been aiming for a superior sounding drawl, but the shake in his voice belied the attempt.

Harry lowered his head and licked at the fabric over Draco’s nipples. Draco arched his spine, pressing up into Harry’s mouth.

“Merlin, Potter,” he groaned. “I’m too full for this.”

Harry chuckled and pulled away. “Alright, darling,” he said, still hovering over Draco. “Maybe some other time.”

He sat back on his haunches. Draco lifted his head, looking vaguely confused. Harry ignored the look and stretched out beside Draco on the rug, curling into his side. He laid a hand on Draco’s chest and closed his eyes.

Draco huffed and fidgeted for a few minutes before he finally broke. “Fine!” he cried. “Tell me.”

“Hmm?” Harry breathed, feigning sleepiness.

“Don’t play coy with me now, Potter,” Draco grumbled. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking!”

“Well,” said Harry, fighting back a smile, “that blue uniform the curse-breaker had on _was_ rather handsome. Do you think a cloak like that might look good on me?” He ran a fingertip down Draco’s sternum.

“Harry,” Draco gasped, “do you mean –” 

“How ‘bout it, darling?” Harry winked at him. “Want to dress me up? Have a sexy curse-breaker of your very own?”

Draco made a strangled sounding noise. His fingers clenched into the fibers of the rug as he held himself still for the space of one choked-down breath. Then, almost violently, he rolled himself on top of Harry and attacked his mouth.

Harry tried to return Draco’s greedy kisses, but he was just so bloody _enamored_ that he couldn’t help starting to giggle. Draco moaned once in frustration, then dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder, smothering his own giggles.

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, holding him close. “Is that a yes, then?”

Draco pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Harry sheepishly. Embarrassment warred with the want in his eyes. 

Smoothing a thumb over Draco’s cheek, Harry gazed earnestly up at Draco. “I meant it,” he said. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”

“I know,” Draco said softly. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

“Good.” Harry smiled, still caressing his cheek. “So… yes?”

Draco laughed helplessly. He flushed and nodded, then hid his face against Harry’s neck.

Harry gave him a little squeeze and playfully bucked his hips against Draco’s. “Are you sure you’re too full to –”

The cottage shook as a series of explosive booms drowned out Harry’s words.

With a shocked yell, Draco scrambled upright, Harry on his heels as he ran for the door. They burst out into the cold, hardly noticing the sting of the frozen ground against their bare feet.

Draco’s hand flew up to cover his mouth. 

Tears pricked at Harry’s eyes as he reached blindly for Draco. Clutching each other tightly, they stared at the smoke already blanketing the night sky. Those billowing grey clouds drifted sensually upward, draping tendrils over the Quidditch goal posts and blocking out the stars.

Jaffey and her partner stood in the middle of the Pitch. All around them, the gold and silver flowers were on fire.


	20. your hand on my heart

Draco knelt on the Quidditch Pitch, head bowed. Fingers sifting restlessly through the remains of the flowers, he uncovered nothing more substantial than a few clumps of withered vines. 

All those cheerful, fearless blooms, reduced to ash.

Jaffey and the curse-breaker had been unable to stop the raging flames in time to save the flowers. They threw spell after spell at the conflagration, but nothing could quiet the blaze. Eventually, they had slapped up shield charms and simply waited it out.

Harry and Draco had waited too, their own silent vigil for the flowers - though the loud and frantic theorizing of the Ministry team infringed upon their grief. To Harry, it had felt as if the harried shouts were desecrating a grave. 

It was no wonder really, that as soon as Jaffey and her partner disappeared, Draco had sprinted across the field and dropped to his knees amongst the dead flowers.

What had happened this night was a tragedy, the death of a sacred piece of Hogwarts’ magic, a severing of the bond between the school and the sacrifices of the past. It deserved acknowledgement. It deserved to be mourned.

Flakes of ash drifted through the air, catching in Draco’s hair and in the knit of his jumper. It was beautiful, like a covering of snow, transforming the scene into something from a fairytale. Skin shining in the moonlight, hair as silver-touched as a crown, Draco became an ethereal prince, lost in the dust and shadows of the woods, frozen in a pose of profound sorrow.

Looking at him, Harry could not help but think of chasing the flowers through Hogwarts on the first day of term. Draco had thrown himself into soot and ashes on that day too, hands trembling as he cradled the glass flower in the Room of Requirement.

This was like the mirror image of that moment, backwards and wrong. 

Harry tipped his head back and gazed up at the sky. The smoke had dissipated enough that he could see the stars. He breathed in deep, seeking out the crisp, comforting scent of the flowers, but he found nothing but bitterness. Eyes squeezed shut, he indulged in one desperate moment of heartache, and then let himself sink down beside Draco.

He sat cross-legged, chin resting glumly in his palm. “We should have known.”

Draco’s fingers stilled, but he did not look up.

Staring at the empty stands, Harry slowly reasoned it out. “The potion protects our magic – but Jaffey and her partner must have attacked the hooks directly. We’ve never tried that before.” He paused, gnawing on his lip thoughtfully. “It makes sense they’d react more strongly if they were being threatened. Maybe Voldemort even built in some type of defense mechanism.” Blowing out a resigned breath, Harry concluded, “so the hooks must’ve twisted their spell Dark, and it hit the flowers.”

Draco nodded curtly.

“We should have known,” Harry said again, guilt woven through the words.

“No!” Draco yelled. Harry jumped at the suddenness of it, pulse racing as Draco continued in a fierce growl. “ _They_ should have known. They’re supposed to be experts, the all-knowing Unspeakables, but they rush in here and fire off the first spells they can think of?” Draco was ripping up handfuls of grass as he spoke, the green shards scattering around him in emphatic punctuation. “They decide to mount a massive offensive without doing smaller tests? What the fuck did they _think_ would happen?”

“Well,” Harry hedged, “They _have_ been here all week. They probably did some tests and things we don’t know about.”

He rested a hand against Draco’s shoulder, but the enraged Slytherin twisted away. “I don’t care! It wasn’t enough. Why did McGonagall –” Draco shook his head, eyes pained and helpless. “You and I would _never_ have taken a risk like that.”

Harry cocked his head uncertainly. “Draco, I think we might have.”

“No,” Draco insisted. “Not with the flowers at stake. You said it yourself. They were ours, we _owed_ it to them to finish this, and now –”

Draco cut himself off with a gasp, hand clawing at the collar of his shirt. When he finally looked up at Harry, his pupils were blown wide with panic. “Harry, do you – do you think the potion will stop working? If the flowers aren’t – I mean, the – the blood tie – it – Merlin, Harry, we need – we need to –”

Harry gathered Draco into his arms, gently untangling Draco’s hand from his collar and pressing it against his own chest. “Shh,” he soothed, “it’s alright. Hold on a second.”

Draco’s breathing remained harsh, but he quieted. Harry stroked his free hand up and down Draco’s back, calming them both. Closing his eyes, Harry let his magic unspool over the field. It stretched out across the grass like mist, meandering tendrils snaking their way into the stands.

A slow smile unfurled across Harry’s face, warmth pooling like caramel in his gut. The hooks bit and snapped at him, but Harry hardly noticed. Because beneath the icy chill, there was something else, and it twinkled all across the Pitch.

When Harry reclaimed his magic, it danced back to him, lighting up his blood with an unexpected sparkle. And all Harry could do was laugh.

“Draco,” he cried, the joy still bubbling out of him. “The flower magic, it’s still here! It’s _everywhere.”_

Draco’s eyes sparked, and his mouth curled into a crooked smile of such disbelieving hope that Harry kissed him. He tasted of miracles. Miracles and the sweetness of discovery.

“Potter!” Draco spluttered, laughing and batting ineffectually at Harry. “Stop that! Tell me what happened!”

Harry snogged him for three more perfect seconds before finally relenting and pulling away. Still grinning wildly, he tried to explain what he had felt. “I don’t understand how, but the flowers are still fighting. Their residue, it’s surrounding the hooks, bunching around them – just like before! The hooks used to be inside the flowers. Like the blooms were trying to swallow them or something.”

Mouth slightly open, Draco was gazing at Harry with an odd expression, almost as if he wanted to physically peel back the layers of Harry’s mind and crawl inside.

“Harry,” Draco said. His voice was tinged with wonder, bathing Harry in a golden light. “Will you teach me Sentiomancy?”

He sounded so wistful, so suffused with longing, that Harry was taken aback. “Right _now?”_ he asked incredulously.

Snapping out of his daze, Draco blushed, then tried to hide it with an exaggerated eye roll. “No, Potter, I think we have bigger problems right now.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, and Draco looked away sheepishly.

“It’s just – frustrating,” he admitted. “Hogwarts created a magic so strong that it lasts beyond its vessel’s death, and I can’t –” Draco gestured vaguely at the air. He sighed, dropping his hand. “I want to see what you see.”

“Oh, darling,” Harry breathed, smoothing a few wisps of hair out of Draco’s eyes. “Of course I’ll teach you.”

Draco smiled against Harry’s lips, caressing his cheek tenderly before pulling away and settling on his back in the grass. As he stared up at the stars, his expression went distant, and Harry knew he was attempting to puzzle everything out.

After casting a strong warming charm around them, Harry lay down beside Draco and took his hand. They were silent for a time, Harry waiting for the moment when Draco would be ready to talk through his theories.

“Harry?” Draco said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never understood – why do you think the flowers weren’t able to overcome the residue?” His fingers tightened around Harry’s. “They brought me back from the edge of death. They’ve been fighting all this time. Why haven’t they won?”

Harry rubbed his thumb in circles over Draco’s palm. “I think they needed _us,”_ he said haltingly. He was thinking it through as he spoke. “Your blood gave them enough to save you. The blood tie in the potion gave them enough to shield our magic… to destroy the hooks, they must need something more from us.”

“It makes sense,” Draco mused. “Their magic is born from sacrifice, from human action.”

He bent his knees, propping an ankle against his thigh. Absently, he began to move his foot in slow, restless circles.

“Harry,” he asked abruptly, “when I was arguing with McGonagall in the hospital wing – were you using Sentiomancy?”

Harry rolled onto his side to face him. “Yeah, how did you –”

“I felt something. It was like your hand on my heart.”

“I tied myself to you,” Harry whispered, trailing a fingertip down Draco’s arm.

Draco hummed in contentment, but then his brow furrowed. “Why? What were you doing?”

Harry curled into Draco, resting his head on Draco’s chest as he explained. “The flowers were dropping petals on Luna, on all of them. It was like they were trying to get closer.” He paused, remembering how desperate the blooms had looked. Shivering as they strained toward the patients, unable to quiet their pain. “I’d never tried to manipulate residue before, but I thought maybe, if I could pull the flowers’ magic, bring it straight into Luna’s and the others’ cores, that it might help. I tied some of my magic to yours, to protect me, like in the Forest. And then I gathered what I could from the flowers and tried to hit the hooks with it.” He sighed ruefully. “It didn’t work. The hooks fell back for a minute, but then they ripped right through it.”

Draco shot upright so violently that Harry fell off him in an ungainly sprawl. “But you hadn’t taken the potion yet!” he shouted.

Harry grunted, rubbing his head where he’d knocked it against a rock. “No, I hadn’t –” He scrambled to his knees in sudden realization. “But now –” he started excitedly.

Draco interrupted, grabbing Harry’s wrist. “What if you –”

“What if I –”

The words burst from them, almost overlapping. The idea crested the hill like a snowball, barreling downward and growing as it picked up speed.

“Weave my magic into yours –”

“Weave in the residue from the flowers –”

“Wrap it all around the spell, shield it like –”

“So that when the spell hits the hooks –”

“There’s enough flower magic and enough _us_ to protect it –”

“To get it past the defenses!” Draco finished triumphantly.

For one long moment, they stared at each other in awe. And then Draco tackled Harry.

Harry hit the ground hard, the wind briefly knocked out of him. Before he could recover, Draco was kissing his neck and jaw. “Harry, you’re brilliant!” he crowed. “ _Merlin,_ I love you.”

Harry got his breath back and tried to pull Draco’s mouth to his, but Draco had already leapt up. He grabbed Harry’s hand and tugged him to his feet.

Draco brushed grass off Harry’s shoulders and straightened out his own rumpled shirt.

“Harry, this is it,” he said, face suddenly serious. “We have to try it.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “We should find McGonagall, have her introduce us to Jaffey and that other guy and then come back here.”

Draco frowned and shook his head. “No. We’re doing this now,” he said adamantly, leaving no room for argument. 

Harry must have cringed or looked uncertain, because Draco went on, as fiery as Harry had ever heard him. His eyes glinted dangerously, like a moonbeam across a blade. “I am not letting those fools anywhere near this. This is ours. Our sacrifices grew the flowers, your magic touched them, my blood woke them. Don’t you see, Harry? It has to be us.” 

“But Draco,” Harry pleaded, “we don’t know the spell. We don’t know _how_ to clean up Dark Magic residue.”

Draco huffed out a frustrated breath. “I told you ‘clean up’ is not the proper –”

“Draco.” Harry crossed his arms, giving Draco an unimpressed look.

Abashed, Draco bit his lip. “Sorry.”

There was a heavy pause. Harry kicked at a clump of dirt by his feet.

“I know the spell,” Draco said quietly. His eyes flickered hopefully toward Harry. “I’ll cast. You shield.”

“You know the spell?” Harry echoed in surprise.

Draco nodded. “I read up on it, remember? Back when I thought we may need to alter the dispersal spells to deal with the altered residue. I can do it. It’s fairly straight-forward, actually. Simple, if strenuous.”

Harry scrubbed a tired hand across his brow, but his resistance was flagging. He had never been good at fighting the inevitable leap into action. He looked up at Draco and grinned. “Right. Ok. This is probably a terrible idea! But I’m in. Let’s do it.”

Something about Harry’s capitulation seemed to unnerve Draco. His eyes darted around the Pitch and he crossed an arm over his stomach, rubbing at his forearm nervously. “Harry –” he began hesitantly.

Harry took a step closer to him. Placing his hands reassuringly on Draco’s shoulders, he said, “I trust you. And you’re right. I want it to be us.”

Draco leaned his forehead against Harry’s and took a steadying breath.

“We’ll start small,” Draco said, straightening. He pointed his wand at the field and marked off a small square. “Target just this area, right in front of us, not the whole Pitch.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. “Ok, get the spell ready, but wait for me to tell you when. I need a minute to collect the different magics.”

Draco swept toward him and captured his lips in a crushing kiss. Then he stepped back, gripped his wand in steady fingers, and nodded to Harry.

Harry kept his eyes open, but he turned his focus inward, grounding himself until he could feel his magic crackling to life. He let the heat of it press against his skin and slowly seep out into the chill night air, until he was surrounded by its energy. Raising his hands, he stretched the magic until it encompassed Draco, gathering Draco’s fizzles to him like a cloud absorbing beads of moisture. Acting purely on instinct, Harry began to circle Draco, feeling their magic entwine and spiral above him – a mini hurricane of Harry’s own making, drawing in tendrils of the flowers’ residue, shining silver threads to brighten the storm.

Draco glanced upward nervously, and Harry saw a tiny drop of sweat trickle down his temple. He may not be able to fully sense magic yet, but Draco clearly felt something. The air seemed to buzz as the magic hovered over Harry, a whirlwind at his fingertips, awaiting his command. His hands shook as static seemed to zip through his veins, the sheer magnitude of what he was holding burning him up from the inside out.

Harry stopped behind Draco, clapping his hands together as he wove a complex braid – strands of all three of the magics pulled taut and knotted inextricably into Harry’s intent. 

“Almost,” Harry whispered, so as not to startle Draco.

He stepped closer to him, wrapping his arms around him from behind, one hand resting just below Draco’s sternum, right over his core, the other loosely cupping Draco’s wand-arm. 

Draco adjusted his feet, perfecting his stance, and Harry felt the tendons in his wrist move as he tightened his grip on his wand.

“Ready,” Draco said calmly.

“Now.”

As the spell built in Draco’s core, Harry tracked it, already knitting his protective magics through and around it. By the time Draco spoke the incantation, his magic was as safe and snug as a baby bird cradled in Harry’s palm.

Draco leaned into Harry as he maintained the spell, already tiring, but he gritted his teeth and scoured his wand over the entire patch of grass he had marked.

The spell hit and the hooks flocked to it, biting into the magic with vicious pincers. Harry felt it like a thousand rubber bands snapping against his skin. 

But the magic held.

Draco’s dispersal spell was armored in flowers, and the magic held.

The hooks writhed and shrieked and twisted, sending one last shock wave of dizzy pain roiling through Harry. 

And then, one by one, the hooks winked out.

***

McGonagall peered down at them, amusement playing at the corner of her mouth. Her posture was relaxed, and she looked like an entirely different woman from the one who’d opened her office door less than an hour earlier.

It had been barely seven in the morning when Harry and Draco had roused her with their enthusiastic knocking. Her face had been grim and her eyes weary, and the papers scattered across her desk suggested she’d been reviewing Jaffey and the curse-breaker’s reports late into the night. The parchment was covered in the same symbols as the diagrams Harry and Draco had caught a glimpse of while spying.

Seeing the tired lines of McGonagall’s face, Harry felt a flash of guilt, and he had briefly wondered if they should have come to the Headmistress immediately after destroying those first few hooks.

He and Draco had gotten a bit carried away the night before, whooping and cavorting around the Quidditch Pitch, halting at random intervals to kiss sloppily before casting the joint dispersal spell again and again. By the time they’d staggered exhaustedly back to their cottage, it had gone on two in the morning, and Draco insisted that the castle would be asleep.

Harry might have argued, but then he’d caught the gleam in Draco’s eyes, like starlight dancing across the surface of a vast and hungry lake, and when Draco led him toward the rug in front of the fire, Harry did not protest.

Draco undressed him slowly, baring Harry’s skin inch by inch as he pressed chaste kisses over Harry’s entire body. 

As the fire popped and crackled, Draco had taken Harry apart, worshipped him with lips and tongue and clever fingers, whispering _I love you_ over and over against Harry’s neck and chest and mouth. And when Draco had finally pushed inside of Harry, their magics mingling together as if they had always been one, Harry shook beneath him, entirely overwhelmed by the depth of his love.

It was not something it was possible to regret, and so Harry had pushed the momentary guilt aside and smiled reassuringly at McGonagall. And when Draco began his gleeful explanation of destroying the hooks, Harry had joined in eagerly.

McGonagall had let them babble on uninterrupted, but eventually requested a demonstration, which Harry and Draco had been thrilled to provide. Working together seamlessly, they had cleared the hooks from her entire office, Harry narrating his actions as they went. 

Afterward, McGonagall had required another explanation, insisting they go through it all calmly and without speaking over one another.

They’d talked themselves hoarse, and there had been silence for a few minutes now, McGonagall simply watching them with that almost smile on her face.

“Well,” McGonagall said finally. “I suppose I’ll have to arrange a meeting with Unspeakable Jaffey and Curse-breaker Dahnroe. Later this afternoon, perhaps. I would like you two gentlemen to teach them this joint spellwork of yours, so they may manage the dispersal of the rest of Voldemort’s residue.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a quick look.

“That’s quite alright, Headmistress,” Draco cut in politely. “Harry and I would be happy to finish the work of cleansing Hogwarts.”

McGonagall’s usual stern countenance settled back into place. “Nonsense, Mr. Malfoy. While I appreciate your offer and while I do not object to you and Mr. Potter handling the residue at Hogwarts, you must realize that this residue likely contaminates many other wizarding areas. Death Eater activity was not limited to Hogwarts, as you may recall.”

“Of course, Headmistress,” Draco murmured, sounding chastened.

“The Ministry will handle the discovery and dispersal of the residue at all other sites, though as there was not a deluge of accidents and injuries over the summer, I imagine Hogwarts will prove to be the worst site of contamination. I am confident that Ms. Jaffey and Mr. Dahnroe can handle the rest. You and Mr. Potter will return to your studies.”

“Of course,” Draco said again, as Harry nodded beside him.

McGonagall adjusted her spectacles then, and her sternness melted away. “Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter.” She inclined her head to each of them in turn, smiling warmly. “Please accept my most sincere gratitude. You have shown remarkable fortitude in dealing with this threat, and at a time when you deserved peace and rest. You will both receive a Special Award for Services to the School, and I will ensure that you receive Ministry recognition as well.”

“Headmistress, that is really not necessary –” Draco began to protest, but McGonagall neatly interrupted him.

“It is necessary, if I say it is necessary,” she stated firmly. Clapping her hands together as if the matter was settled, she tapped her wand against a pear-shaped crack in the wall beside her. “Now then, I believe a celebratory breakfast is in order.”

Almost before she finished speaking, platters began to appear on her desk, covered in eggs and toast and pastries. She gestured for them to help themselves.

Harry poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice and tucked in, content to simply listen as McGonagall and Draco chatted about the techniques Jaffey and Dahnroe had been using to study the residue on the grounds. Draco eventually admitted that he and Harry had briefly spied on the two Ministry employees, and then he looked on in astonishment as McGonagall chuckled.

The conversation turned to other things, and when Harry brought up how much he had enjoyed the cooking workshop, Draco waxed rhapsodic over Harry’s apple pie for so long and with such conviction that Harry found himself blushing furiously.

Several pots of tea later, when they had finished indulging themselves and McGonagall’s desk was strewn with crumbs, the Headmistress banished the mess with a self-satisfied air. “Well, gentlemen,” she said, straightening in her chair, “this has been a lovely visit, but I am afraid I have several letters to write. Before you go, however, there remains one more matter to discuss.”

“Yes, Headmistress?” Draco asked, as he and Harry both looked up at her curiously.

McGonagall folded her hands together and turned to Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, I have no doubt that you will have many prestigious institutions clamoring for the privilege of overseeing your Potions apprenticeship next year” – she paused as Draco made a startled sound, and Harry could have sworn she almost _smirked_ – “and it would be wise to consider the merits of each. However, please know that I intend to spend the next months wooing you with expensive equipment, internship opportunities, and private mentoring sessions with witches and wizards at the top of the Potions field.”

“Wooing?” Draco repeated, voice faint. His hands were clenched on his knees and he was frowning deeply. “Headmistress, I am afraid I don’t understand –”

“I want you to stay on at Hogwarts, of course,” McGonagall said matter-of-factly, as if this should have been obvious to Draco.

Draco stared at her. “But why –” he asked, shaking his head slowly, “why would you want _me?”_

Draco’s fingers were digging into his left forearm now, directly over the spot where the faded Dark Mark still marred his skin. Harry’s heart clenched painfully, and he had to stop himself from yanking up Draco’s sleeve and covering his arm with kisses. Harry glanced nervously at McGonagall, but he needn’t have worried. She ignored Draco’s implication entirely, answering him with no reference to his ex-Death Eater status. 

“I have no illusions that you will ever desire to teach a full course load,” McGonagall explained patiently. “That would leave little time for the innovative work you are so clearly meant to be doing. But having you on staff would allow a unique opportunity for a select number of advanced Potions students, as well as affording you the chance to collaborate with new talent and to directly influence the future of the field. You may very well _be_ the future of the Potions field, Mr. Malfoy.” McGonagall frowned down at him then, as if she were scolding him. “It is high time you recognized your value.”

Her face softened when she saw Draco’s pale face and gobsmacked expression.

“You do not need to make any decisions now,” she continued gently, “but rest assured, you will have an offer from Hogwarts upon your graduation.”

“Yes!” Draco burst out suddenly, hands scrabbling at his elbows. “Yes, Headmistress – I – I – _fuck.”_

Draco immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and horrified. McGonagall blinked at him, but Harry noticed that her mouth had adopted that amused slant again.

Draco took a shaky breath and visibly reclaimed his composure. He straightened and folded his hands neatly into his lap. “What I mean to say is – thank you, Headmistress. I accept.”

“There are many months between now and June, Mr. Malfoy, and so I will not hold you to that decision. However,” McGonagall paused, eyes twinkling at Draco, “I do hope your mind does not change.”

She gave Draco a long, considering look. Draco nodded at her, smiling almost shyly. This apparently satisfied McGonagall, because she shifted her focus to Harry.

“As for you, Mr. Potter, I will also have a position for you, whether you fill in that application or not.” She raised an eyebrow and Harry ducked his head sheepishly. He’d been avoiding discussing McGonagall’s suggestion that he become a teaching fellow for weeks now. But then the meaning of her words penetrated, and Harry’s head snapped back up.

“If you are amenable,” McGonagall continued, seeing that he had finally cottoned on, “I would like you to develop and eventually implement an Aperiomancy program at Hogwarts, which, incidentally, would also fulfill the requirements for the independent study portion of the Defense teaching fellowship I intend to offer you.”

Draco gave a suspiciously triumphant shout, then clapped his hand over his mouth for the second time in as many minutes. He coughed abruptly, as if trying to distract from his outburst. When Harry’s eyes flickered over to him, he looked furious with himself.

Harry collapsed against the back of his chair with a laugh. “Thank you, Professor.”

***

The moment McGonagall’s door closed behind them, Draco let out a pained groan and started to berate himself. “If I had known the Headmistress was going to make _you_ an offer too, I would never have accepted so quickly! Merlin, I should have known! Of course she wants you, she already hinted as much! I’m such an idiot, I never should have said yes like that, I just wasn’t thinking,” he cried, tugging at his hair as they descended the staircase.

The words tripped Harry up, quite literally – he stumbled on the stairs, overcome by the rush of raw hurt he felt. Draco reached out a hand to steady him mid-tirade, without even pausing for breath.

“Not that I’m not _thrilled_ with a Hogwarts apprenticeship, because I _am_ , and not that I don’t want to be together, because I _do,_ but you shouldn’t make your decision based on me! And I am not saying you would, of course, but I do not want you to feel pressured to stay at Hogwarts just because I am –”

Suddenly understanding what Draco was worried about (and almost stumbling _again_ , in sheer relief this time), Harry tried to interrupt, but Draco continued to ramble right over him.

“You’re Harry Potter! The hero of the wizarding world! And I’m sorry, I know you don’t like to be referred to like that, and that is not what I mean, not really, it’s just you’ve already done so much _good_ and I know you want to do something you love, not just chase after criminals because it’s expected of you, and I could not agree with you more. I want you to be happy, you _deserve_ to be happy, that’s why I requested the teaching fellowship application in the first place, because it really seems to fit your skills and personality and I really do think you would enjoy it, but you will have so many other opportunities, I mean, every wizarding door will be open to you, it’s not like it is for me, with all the mistakes I’ve made, it’s a miracle I have a future at all – but you, Harry! You could do literally anything, and I want you to choose for you and not just settle for the first good thing that falls in your lap, and I promise to support whatever decision you make, but you should get to make that decision yourself and I’m sorry I said yes like that, you should have had the chance to think about your own decision without knowing mine –”

By the time they reached the castle doors, and after several failed attempts to interject, Harry decided he might as well let Draco get on with it. He’d tire himself out eventually.

With Draco still emphatically lecturing at his side, Harry stuck his hands in his pockets and set off toward the eighth year dorms. 

It was early yet and the grounds were deserted, but Harry enjoyed watching the owls swooping toward the West Tower, returning after a long night and settling in to sleep the day away. The air had the crisp, almost minty feel of approaching snow, tempered by the scent of spices and woodsmoke that always seemed to linger on the wind when Hogwarts’ fires were burning. Strolling along like this, with Draco’s crisp vowel sounds washing over him and safe in the knowledge that they had beaten the hooks, Harry felt more content than he had in a long time. It was all so pleasant that he almost started to whistle, though that likely would have alerted Draco to the fact that Harry wasn’t really listening to him.

Finally, they reached the common room, but Harry did not slow his pace. He led Draco straight past their bedroom door and into a different room, just down the hall.

Harry leaned against the desk, crossing his arms and gazing expectantly at Draco.

“– didn’t want to push you. I was just so glad you seemed to realize you didn’t want to be an auror, and I thought that was enough for now, but maybe I should have asked you more about what you wanted to do instead, and I –” A loud sneeze cut off Draco’s words.

He rubbed his nose, looking a bit startled to find himself in a nearly empty room.

“Potter,” he asked with a frown, “why are we in your old bedroom? It’s musty in here.”

Harry chuckled. “Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright. Now as I was saying –”

“No, Draco, I want –”

“– there’s still time, we can –”

“Draco, will you shut up for a minute?” Harry shouted, then hastily added, “please.”

Draco snapped his mouth shut, face coloring slightly.

“I have something to show you,” Harry said.

Reaching behind him, he pulled a sheaf of parchment out of the desk drawer and handed it to Draco. 

Draco stared down at Harry’s teaching fellowship application, eyes roving over the scrawled words that covered it. Blinking rapidly, Draco flipped through the attached pages. Harry had written a multi-scroll proposal detailing three vastly different approaches for incorporating the study of Aperiomancy into Hogwarts’ pre-existing curriculum. Additional sheets of parchment outlined the merits and challenges of each.

“I already decided,” said Harry.

“Oh,” Draco breathed, thumbing the edges of the paperwork carefully.

“I was going to talk to you about it last night, actually. But then, with everything that happened –” Harry shrugged, offering Draco a crooked smile.

Expression stunned, Draco didn’t respond, but Harry noticed his hands trembling. He took the application from Draco and tucked it back inside the desk drawer.

“I did it for me,” he said, meeting Draco’s eyes. “I promise, I chose for me. It’s what I want. But I knew, that wherever you went, I would still want this too.” He gestured between them, then clasped Draco’s hand. “I knew I would still want _you_. I was willing to work for that, and I still am, if you decide that Hogwarts isn’t the right place for you. But I’d be so, so glad if you were here too.”

Draco looked at Harry’s hand as if he had never seen it before. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. “I never thought I’d have a choice. I knew I’d be lucky to be offered even one apprenticeship. But if I could have chosen anywhere, it would have been Hogwarts.” He looked up and touched Harry’s cheek hesitantly. “And if I could have chosen anyone, it would have been you.”

Harry swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and kissed Draco tenderly. When they broke apart, Harry lifted himself to sit on the edge of the desk and pulled Draco between his legs.

“Do you think McGonagall will let us live in our cottage?” he asked, stroking his fingers through Draco’s hair.

Draco’s eyes widened. “You want to _live_ with me?”

“I’m not sure how to tell you this, darling,” Harry said, waggling his eyebrows at Draco, “but we’ve been living together for almost two months now.” He kissed Draco’s neck, nipping teasingly at the skin beneath his jaw.

Draco made a disgruntled noise and squirmed away. “That’s different,” he scoffed. “This is just school.” 

Harry tilted his head, looking at Draco quizzically.

“What you’re talking about,” Draco said, voice suddenly soft and unsure. “What you’re talking about is – a life.” 

Harry’s answering smile was bright enough to chase every last bit of dust from the room. 

“I know.”


	21. epilogue - this life we chose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've reached the end! This story became far longer (and took far longer!) than I ever expected. Thank you so much for reading! I hope it has brought you a little joy during the craziness and sorrow of this pandemic, as it has for me. Love to all! Please stay safe <3

Harry had only been wearing his new t-shirts for three days when Draco finally snapped.

And thank Merlin for that.

Not that it hadn’t been enjoyable, watching the self-control bleed slowly out of Draco, catching the moments when he would spill an ingredient or fumble a tool, his fingers grown clumsy from one glance at Harry. Draco would lick his lips, or unconsciously spread his thighs, or absently loosen his collar, and Harry would relish the tiny slips, having grown needy for any shred of Draco’s attention.

Draco hadn’t come to bed in over a week now, only succumbing to sleep in restless bursts when he’d doze off head in hand, still hunched over his lab table. It was the last week of term, Christmas was only a few days away, and Draco’s projects were in their final stages, apparently needing constant monitoring and adjustment. Harry could not have been prouder of Draco, but still, he had been feeling rather – neglected.

To make matters worse, Harry had few distractions of his own. For his project, he had set out to master low-level Aperiomancy, having finally accepted that he couldn’t rely on Sentiomancy if he was truly to develop a student-friendly Aperiomancy curriculum. 

Working together over the past month, he and Draco had made considerable progress. With Draco’s help, Harry had gotten a solid grasp on the theory, and his casting now resulted in visible magic nearly every time. Draco was even better at it than Harry, though he still struggled with the less concrete Sentiomancy. 

Determined to keep his promise to teach Draco, Harry had been testing out the different techniques he had brainstormed for working with students. He found ways to verbalize the abstract process, giving Draco an outline to follow, and even managed to use his own Sentiomancy to push against Draco’s magic and give him something specific to look for. It had been a slow process, but Draco was beginning to recognize patterns in magical residue and develop his own sense of what different spells felt like, and Harry had been able to add pages of new ideas to his Hogwarts application. 

It was incredibly satisfying, to finally be walking toward a future he had forged for himself, one that captivated him almost as much as Potions did Draco. But that hard-won, settled feeling, beautiful as it was, did little to fill Harry’s sudden free time, leaving him bored and longing for Draco.

And so, when Draco marched over to the bonfire, nodded amiably to Ron and Hermione, and seized Harry’s wrist, Harry quite happily allowed himself to be dragged bodily from the common room.

The door to their bedroom had hardly shut behind them when Draco slammed Harry against it, pawing roughly at Harry’s biceps where they strained his sleeves.

“It’s about time, darling,” Harry purred in satisfaction. “I’ve missed you.”

Draco swallowed the words, tongue plundering Harry’s mouth. His fingers roved across Harry’s chest, moving downward to toy with the hem of his t-shirt, little bursts of flame igniting in Harry’s veins where Draco’s skin brushed his.

Harry moaned shamelessly, and he felt Draco’s mouth curl into a smile. Draco ground their erections together, thrusting against Harry in a pace more frantic than sensual. 

“Fuck, Potter,” Draco panted, biting his way down Harry’s neck. “Bloody indecent.” He pulled back, eyes glued to the hard planes of Harry’s chest as his hands smoothed over the sinfully tight emerald fabric.

Harry whined, hips jerking helplessly into the empty air that suddenly separated him from Draco.

Draco placed a teasing finger against Harry’s lips. “Shh,” he murmured, his other hand slipping soothingly into Harry’s disheveled black locks. Still keeping a hateful distance between their cocks, Draco leaned in to whisper in Harry’s ear. “Go wait for me on the bed, alright?”

Harry swallowed hard. He nodded breathlessly.

When Draco released him, Harry lowered himself onto the bed. He draped himself artfully across the pillows, stretching until he felt his t-shirt ride up. He heard Draco’s sharp inhalation and smirked up at him, watching Draco’s eyes darken as they caught on the bared skin. Harry felt the gaze as if it were Draco’s hand caressing the trail of hair that led down to Harry’s cock.

Harry moved his own hand to the seam of his trousers and trailed a fingertip over the buckle of his belt. “Draco,” he breathed seductively.

To Harry’s chagrin, Draco did not immediately fall on top of him. His fingers twitched, but he backed slowly away from Harry. When he reached the door, the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Wait,” he repeated, then strode from the room.

Harry groaned, squirming impatiently against the bedclothes. As he caught his breath, his hand dropped away from his trousers and he settled himself more comfortably, perking up at the thought that whatever Draco was doing, surely it would be worth the wait.

Draco had been gone long enough that Harry’s erection had subsided somewhat, when a bitter gust of wind howled by the window. The curtains billowed, and the resulting rush of freezing air raised goosebumps on Harry’s bare arms and feet. He scrambled for his wand and cast a hasty warming charm over himself, before shuffling to the foot of the bed to do the same for the plants strewn across the windowsill.

Harry’s eyes lingered on the glass flower from the Room of Requirement. It sparkled merrily, its brightness seeming to sharpen the pang of melancholy that cut through Harry. He closed his eyes, mind suddenly whirring with hooks and flowers, flames and ice, battles fought with the aid of colorful blooms.

Harry leaned back against the wall, reminding himself that the fight was won, though the thought didn’t entirely soothe the ache. 

In the weeks since the incident on the Quidditch Pitch, Jaffey and Dahnroe had been methodically canvassing wizarding Britain, and their initial reports had been encouraging. The hooks were fewer outside of Hogwarts and seemed to be less firmly entrenched. The partners had been able to dispatch them even without the aid of the _Facere Floresco_ residue. Their own potion-protected magic swaddled around the dispersal spells had proved sufficient, at least for now.

Harry had found this revelation to be a huge relief, for though Draco had offered to lead Jaffey and Dahnroe to the patch of the Manor’s woods where the flowers had bloomed for him, Harry did not think Draco was ready to return to the Manor, at least not yet. Maybe Harry and Draco would go together someday, when Draco could freely choose to, rather than being compelled by persistent Darkness. It would be nice to see the flowers again, whenever Draco was ready. 

If Harry had one regret in all this, it was the desecration of the flowers. Draco had thought, maybe, that only the blooms at the Pitch would have been affected by Jaffey and Dahnroe’s ill-conceived spell, but Harry and Draco had combed every inch of the castle and grounds while dispersing the remaining residual Dark Magic, and they hadn’t come across a single bud. Even the flowers that had exploded out of the Room of Requirement and etched themselves into Hogwarts’ walls were entirely gone. 

Draco had cried, when they found nothing on their last day of dispersal, realizing that the flowers were truly gone and that they no longer had any cause to hope otherwise. His tears were short-lived though, drying before Harry could speak even one word of comfort. After all, the flowers had given Harry and Draco to each other, and the glass flower still glowed with its own pearlescent light. Those two things were more than enough.

Harry opened his eyes and stroked a finger across the crystal petals. The pain receded, and he smiled.

When Draco finally strolled back into the room a few minutes later, Harry’s heart almost stopped. 

His cock throbbed, and though he instantly regretted abandoning his suggestive pose, he couldn’t quite manage to make his limbs obey him. Hardly able to breathe, let alone move, Harry stared slack-jawed at Draco.

Framed by the doorway, Draco was a masterpiece of sleek lines and chiseled angles, statuesque and perfectly poised. The stone-grey suit and purple waistcoat fit him even better than Harry remembered, the fabric snug against those taut muscles that Harry’s fingers now knew so well. 

A desperate ache flashed through Harry’s palms, a not-so-subtle reminder of all the times he had fantasized about exactly this. Draco all done up in his Muggle suit, his messy blond bun softening the look, like he was begging to be unwrapped and debauched.

Draco shut the door behind him and slowly crossed the room, as if he wanted to give Harry ample time to admire him. 

It was only when Draco reached the bed that Harry noticed what he was holding. Dangling from Draco’s slender fingers was the black suit and fitted emerald waistcoat that he had transfigured for Harry, all those weeks ago. The one Harry had hidden away in the back of his wardrobe, unable to bring himself to un-do what Draco had made. Harry flushed as he remembered how many times he had stroked his fingers over the fabric, heartsick and miserable, back before Draco had ever kissed him, back when he thought his affections would never be returned. 

Draco laid the suit neatly on the bed, taking time to smooth out the wrinkles. A strangled sound escaped Harry’s throat and Draco reached for him. He tugged Harry gently to the edge of the bed and stepped between his thighs. Harry craned his neck up for a kiss, but Draco ignored the gesture. His eyes flashed as he smirked, running his hands up and down the length of Harry’s arms.

“Put the suit on, Potter. We –” he trailed a hand across Harry’s hip and palmed his erection teasingly – “are going out.”

With that, Draco pressed a too brief, close-mouthed kiss against Harry’s lips and pulled away. “Leave the t-shirt on,” he commanded, staring down at Harry, “ _underneath_.” The last word was a seductive growl. He gave Harry’s cock one last squeeze before removing his hand.

“Draco –” Harry whined breathlessly, but Draco was already gone, tidying up the mess at his lab table. 

Harry collapsed back against the wall and gripped the base of his cock, trying vainly to calm the heat in his blood. Still panting, he stood shakily and began to undress. Draco turned and watched him blatantly, entire body tense with desire as Harry pulled on the suit and waistcoat. 

After a moment of hesitation, Harry decided to forgo the suit jacket. He hung it carefully in the wardrobe and rolled his shirt cuffs up casually. Draco continued to watch him, the raw want in his eyes clearly signaling approval.

Under Draco’s fiery stare, Harry grew bold. He reached a hand back into the wardrobe and snagged one of his red and gold striped ties. Raising his eyebrows at Draco, Harry leaned into him and brushed the tie across one of his wrists.

Draco gasped and Harry winked at him, tucking the tie into his back pocket, a tantalizing promise for the night to come.

***

Harry and Draco stumbled toward their cottage, giggling and stealing kisses between breaths. They were flushed from the chill night air and drunk on starlight, giddy with the lingering heat of teasing caresses.

Draco had taken Harry to a tiny French restaurant in Hogsmeade. The owner, a friend of Narcissa’s, had greeted Draco warmly and stuffed them with delicacies. The food had been perfect, a subtle blend of flavors that unfurled across Harry’s tongue, somehow evoking the same sense of mystery and wonder that Harry had only ever felt for the flowers, and of course, for Draco.

After the meal, Draco had shyly tugged Harry toward the restaurant’s deserted courtyard, his bashfulness fading when Harry gasped appreciatively. With fairy lights twinkling overhead, they had danced to enchanted piano music, Harry botching the steps as Draco led. A hand pressed firmly into Harry’s back, Draco guided his movements and spoke rapturously of an experimental potion he had finally perfected the day before. Harry was fascinated, not only by Draco’s words, but also by the shine of moonlight in his hair, and he gazed up at Draco dreamily while trying not to step on his toes.

Back at Hogwarts now, Harry’s heart seemed still to be dancing, though they had left the music behind long ago.

They paused at the door of their cottage, fingers entwined as they stood beneath the bright blue shutters and welcoming grey wood. The last several weeks had been so busy that they hadn’t returned here, nor had they discussed Harry’s casual suggestion that they live in the cottage next year. Now though, the idea seemed to hover overhead, a gatekeeper demanding an answer before they could enter the place that might soon be their home.

Harry rested a hand against the wood, his magic spilling out as he imagined all the things that could happen in this cottage, all the things they could share if it was this life they chose.

Draco’s cauldrons crowding the kitchen. Sex on the rug by the fire. Enjoying meals that Harry had cooked. Grading papers on the sofa. Muggle board games in the bedroom. Transfiguring new shelves to hold all their books. Kneeling on the stones of the tub to swallow Draco’s cock. Visits from friends. Holidays. Laughter and sorrow and the memory of loss. Tears. Joy. Sentiomancy. Debates about magical theory. Potions and herbs and invention. Innovation. Photographs of their families. Arguments and apologies and mugs of sugary tea. Seeker games. Dueling out back, with bubble baths afterward to soak away the aches. Kisses and caresses and comfort after nightmares. Sharing dreams. Thousands of good mornings and goodnights and everything in between.

Harry glanced at Draco then and felt his magic flutter, flaring up happily to meet Draco’s questing fizzles. The touch of Draco’s magic was a question, and Harry knew the answer, because Draco’s eyes were shining with the echo of everything Harry had imagined, offering him everything he could ever want. 

Draco cocked his head and gazed intently at Harry. The unspoken words shimmered in the air between them.

_A life._

_At Hogwarts._

_Together._

“Yes?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” Harry whispered intimately, stroking Draco’s cheek.

And when their lips met, the vines that had slowly grown over their cottage finally revealed themselves. Harry and Draco looked up into a riot of color. 

Hundreds of their longed-for flowers had suddenly burst into bloom.


End file.
